The instant the ball settled into the net, the air over Estádio Mineirão froze for a second.
Then it shattered under the roar of the French fans!
BOOM!
BOOM BOOM!!
The French fans were outnumbered by the Brazilians, but in this moment, with the Brazilian side struck silent, their voices carried more than enough.
After the goal, Julien spun and sprinted toward the sideline, threw a hard punch toward the French supporters' section, then slowly spread his arms wide.
Chest out, head high, riding pure exhilaration!
It was his signature pose, the one that declared himself king over all he surveyed, announcing his dominance, answering the expectations the French fans had carried into this match.
"Julien!"
The fans screamed his name with everything they had, as if swearing an oath to God, pouring out their devotion.
His teammates were just as electric.
Griezmann reached him first, leaping onto his back, arms locked tight around his shoulders.
Giroud, Matuidi, and the others followed close behind, crowding around Julien and shouting hoarsely with excitement!
Letting the passion of the goal pour out of them without restraint!
Julien held his arms spread wide as a confident smile began curling at the corner of his mouth.
In this moment, he was the entire stadium's focal point!
Up in the stands, the French fans waved their flags, chanting Julien's name at the top of their lungs.
And the yellow ocean that had been boiling with noise just moments before now felt strangely muted. But soon, the Brazilian fans found their voice again, cheering their team on, once more drowning out the French celebration.
And yet, among the Brazilian fans who actually understood the game, a grim thought was taking shape: something wasn't right.
"That last French attack—how did our defence get cut open that easily?"
"Gustavo and Fernandinho, the two of them together, and they couldn't even hold off De Rocca alone?"
"Why does our midfield suddenly look like it isn't even there?"
They could feel that the team's defence had a fatal flaw somewhere in it.
And under Julien's assault, that flaw would only be exposed further, magnified without limit.
On the pitch, César bent down, scooped the ball out of his own net, his face was grim as he waved for his teammates to pull themselves together.
David Luiz and Dante stood inside the box, murmuring to each other about what had gone wrong defensively.
Gustavo and Fernandinho hung their heads, faces filled with regret—moments earlier the two of them had tried to double-team Julien, only for him to slip past both with an easy dribble, turning their failed tackle into the breakthrough for France's goal. The guilt of it sat heavy on them both.
The rest of the team looked disheartened too. Conceding first, at home, on their own turf, that was never going to feel good.
In the broadcast booth, after that run of goals, the commentator kept going:
"What a goal from Julien De Rocca. His ghostly run and that cushioned finish, absolutely brilliant! 1-0! France strikes first to break the deadlock, and De Rocca—he's just equalled a legend!
He's matched the record the great Fontaine set—thirteen goals in a single World Cup!
Thirteen goals!
This World Cup, De Rocca has been unstoppable!
From the group stage all the way to the semifinal, goal after goal, he's been writing a legend all his own, and tonight, he stands just one step from surpassing it entirely…"
The camera swept across the Brazilian bench.
Scolari's face had gone dark, arms crossed over his chest, brow furrowed into a tight knot.
He clearly understood there was a tactical crack somewhere, but he couldn't fix it on the fly—not with his squad already so thin, he had little room left to manoeuvre.
On the French bench, Deschamps had already cooled down after the celebration, motioning for his players to settle back into their rhythm and stick to the game plan they'd walked in with.
It was exactly the effect he'd been after.
Exploit Brazil's eagerness to attack, punish the gaps it opened in their defence, and steadily widen the lead.
Julien and his teammates' celebration wound down, and they jogged back to their own half.
Meanwhile, the commentator was still breaking down the tactical story behind the goal: "We have to say it—Brazil's approach today has been a little reckless.
As the host nation, hungry for revenge, hungry for the win, they came out attacking from the first whistle, trying to clutter France with pressure. But that approach has only exposed problem after problem of their own.
Start with the front line—Fred's individual ability is limited, and the link-up between Hulk, Oscar, and Bernard has been anything but smooth. Their attacking threat up top is seriously lacking, and it's been hard for them to put any strong pressure on France's back line.
To make up for that shortage up front, Scolari made a risky call, pushing Alves and Marcelo far forward to join the attack, trying to force something open down the flanks.
But that adjustment is a double-edged sword, no question.
Once Alves and Marcelo pushed forward, they left a massive gap behind them, and they haven't been getting back in time!
That French attack we just saw—it exploited exactly the space Marcelo left behind when he pushed up. Julien carried the ball and split it wide, Matuidi drove forward with it, and all Brazil could do was have Maicon try to cover.
As things stand, Brazil's game plan looks shaky. They're chasing the attack too hard and neglecting the solidity of their defence—midfield interception is lacking, the gaps in the back line are too wide. It's hard to see this holding up against France…"
TWEET!!
A blast from the referee's whistle, and play resumed.
Brazil launched into a frantic counter-push. But France's high press kept choking off anything they tried to build.
When Gustavo had the ball, Matuidi tucked inside to press him, and Julien dropped back too, blocking off his passing lane.
They squeezed Gustavo's space on the ball without mercy.
Gustavo had no time to pick a pass calmly. Rushed into a decision, he couldn't link up through the middle with Fernandinho, and he couldn't find a way through to the players pushing forward on the flanks either.
All he could do was force a long ball forward toward Fred.
But he hit it too hard—it sailed straight over Fred's head, and Varane brought it down without any trouble.
Even though France's own attack didn't end in a goal either, France had used their high press to force Brazil into giving the ball away in bad spots, then relied on zonal defending to keep their own back line solid while stitching their attacks together—perfectly countering Brazil's rushed, desperate tempo.
Brazil, for their part, kept hunting for a chance.
In the 13th minute, Hulk barely managed to get the ball on the left, with Evra marking him tight.
Matuidi hustled back too, and the two of them formed a local zonal block on the left, sealing off Hulk's lanes to break through or pass.
Facing Evra's tight coverage, Hulk suddenly cut the ball inside with a sharp touch, but Evra had read it coming, and calmly stuck out a foot to poke the ball away.
Hulk looked frustrated with himself.
His reckless dribble hadn't just wasted a chance to attack—it had opened up a gap in Brazil's left-side defence.
If Fernandinho hadn't scrambled back in time, France would already have pounced on that gap, and off the back of their high press, launched a quick counter—another opportunity gone.
Slowly up in the stands, the Brazilian fans were starting to see the trouble their team was in too.
The gap in tactics on the pitch was growing more obvious by the minute.
France's combination of the high press and zonal defence had completely shut Brazil down.
On defence, France played a zonal scheme, refusing to give Brazil any seam to thread a pass through.
Up at the front, they kept pressing high, choking the outlet passes from Brazil's back line and midfield, and the instant they won the ball, they'd link up through their zones with the kind of chemistry that only comes from real familiarity, and push straight into attack.
This tactic was a perfect answer to Brazil's weakness—they were too reliant on individuals, and did not have enough cohesion between them.
Every time Brazil touched the ball, they felt the pressure bearing down on them, and they simply couldn't string together anything resembling a coherent attack.
At that point the commentator, with a note of something like a sigh, said:
"We have to admit it—every player on this Brazilian side has exceptional talent, but what they're playing right now is still last century's football: one-on-one duels, no real cohesion. France, on the other hand—what they're playing is true modern football. Total commitment to the collective, seamless understanding between teammates, high pressing fused with zonal defence to near perfection. That's the gap between modern football and the old individual game!"
In the 14th minute, Oscar got the ball in the middle, only to be double-teamed by Kanté and Pogba, who won it off him. France broke forward immediately, launching a fresh wave of attack.
Pogba quickly slid the ball to Julien.
Julien took it in the middle, saw the packed defence clogging the centre, and switched the play, sending it out to Griezmann making a run on the left.
Griezmann carried it to the byline and cut it back across the face of goal.
Giroud surged forward to meet it, but David Luiz got there a half-step first and hacked it clear out of the box.
That counterattack didn't end in a goal.
But it showed off France's collective play completely—the speed of that break was blistering!
As the match went on, France kept up their high-intensity pressure.
Under the constant weight of it, Brazil's mood grew more and more restless.
A familiar Brazilian failing.
The back line, worn down by the nonstop pressing, began to unravel into panic, and their once-organized positioning was pulled apart, ragged and disjointed.
David Luiz, acting as the makeshift anchor of the back line, was desperate to break the passive spiral, and tried to carry the ball forward himself, searching for a way to spark a counter.
Facing Julien's press, he didn't choose the safe option of laying the ball off to Dante beside him.
Instead, he tried to dribble straight through France's front-line press.
But Griezmann quickly tucked inside, squeezing David Luiz's space on the ball.
David Luiz glanced around and pushed the ball toward Oscar in the middle.
Trying to use Oscar to link into the attack up front. But that passing lane had already been spotted—by Kanté.
Just as the ball was about to reach Oscar's feet, Kanté appeared right beside him and stuck out a leg, right into the ball's path.
The touch from Kanté's leg knocked it instantly off course, sending it spinning away from its intended line.
It bounced off toward the midfield zone.
Oscar scrambled after it immediately, but he was a second too slow, and Pogba, who had already read the whole situation coming, stepped in with quick feet and brought the ball firmly under control.
Once Pogba had it, he didn't waste a moment, didn't even have time to properly survey the field.
Relying purely on the chemistry built through training, Pogba set a single pass straight through Brazil's chaotic midfield line, right into the space in front of Julien.
Julien was already moving, running forward quickly to meet the ball.
He turned his body to receive it, and cushioned it with a light touch of the inside of his right foot.
At that moment, Gustavo and Fernandinho scrambled back into position, trying to sandwich Julien between them, sealing off his path forward—one on each side, closing the pincer.
After the touch, Julien flicked the ball with the inside of his left foot, then instantly hooked it back with the inside of his right.
The ball darted back and forth between his two feet.
With that rhythm of footwork, he slipped past Gustavo's challenge in an instant, and in the same motion, neatly dodged Fernandinho's lunging tackle.
Both defenders were left with their weight thrown off-balance by Julien's sharp change of direction, and all they could do was watch him go right past them.
A stir of gasps rippled through the crowd.
It was a moment that had the Brazilian players on the pitch clutching their heads and crying out—a sense that something was badly wrong.
Even some of the Brazilian fans in the stands looked stunned.
A European with footwork like that?
And in that same instant, David Luiz still hadn't made it back into position, and a massive gap had opened up in Brazil's back line.
At the same time, Giroud sprinted out to the right, deliberately dragging Brazil's other centre-back, Dante, out of position with him.
Dante was forced to follow Giroud's run, unable to get back in time to cover for Julien, which only widened the hole in the back line further.
Maicon and Marcelo, who had pushed forward to join the attack, scrambled to get back on defence at the sight of it.
The two of them sprinted hard toward Julien, trying to close him down before he could reach the box, but they were simply too far away to make it in time.
Julien didn't give them the time they needed!
He didn't try to keep driving into the box. Instead, right at the edge of the arc outside the penalty area, he took a sudden big run leap and unleashed a fierce strike!
His left instep drove into the ball with everything he had!
THWACK!
The ball tore through the air like a shell fired from a cannon, screaming toward the Brazilian goal!
César reacted instantly, instinctively leaping and stretching to make the save, but the ball was moving too fast, carrying too much power, and the angle was too vicious—his fingertips barely grazed the edge of it, nowhere near enough to change its course.
WHOOSH!
The ball slammed into the corner of the net, rebounded off the netting, and gave off a dull, heavy thud.
GOAL!
Julien had his brace!
2-0!
France broke the deadlock again, stretching the lead further!
BOOM!!
The French fans' roar tore straight through the sky!
They waved everything they had in their hands like madmen, screaming Julien's name at the top of their lungs, pouring out every last drop of joy in their hearts.
And far more Brazilian fans simply slumped into their seats.
Two goals down, their core player missing, and now even their proudest asset—the home advantage didn't look like it could save the team from its decline.
On the pitch, the instant the shot left his foot, Julien had already turned, arms spread wide again, striking that same signature lord-of-all pose except this time, an entirely new legend had just been born!
A new record!
His teammates rushed over, screaming with delirious joy, "Record broken! Julien! Fourteen goals! You broke Fontaine's record!! Incredible!"
"My brother, you're out of your mind! Fourteen goals, a brand-new record—you actually did it!"
Pogba turned to the camera and roared, "You see that?! That's our Julien! The new legend of the World Cup!"
Julien, surrounded by his teammates, wore a wide, glowing smile.
On the other side, Brazil's players.
One after another, they stood on the pitch with their heads hanging, and bleak expressions.
None of them could quite understand what had just happened.
How were they down two goals already?
It wasn't even twenty minutes in!
David Luiz stood in the middle of the pitch, his face was grim—it was his passing error that had handed France the counterattack, and Julien's goal off it landed on him like a hard slap across the face.
Up in the stands, Brazil's legendary former stars looked grim too.
Ronaldo's forehead furrowed faintly. He said nothing.
At that moment, the commentator shouted, "A new record!! Julien's brace! Fourteen goals!
He's broken the legendary record Fontaine set—thirteen goals in a single World Cup and rewritten World Cup history all over again! My god, this is unbelievable!
The five-star giants of Brazil were shattered, completely.
On their own home soil, in front of the whole world watching this semifinal, crushed under France's relentless pressure, down two goals, an incomplete squad, tactics a step behind—right now, they've lost every trace of the champion's swagger they once carried!
Julien De Rocca is unstoppable!
Fourteen goals—and this isn't the end. He's still got a chance, still got more of this match to play, and this record might just keep on growing!!"
________________________________________________________
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