Meanwhile, France and Brazil could not have felt more different.
The fans no longer knew how to put their feelings into words.
Alphonse was shouting now. "My God! Ladies and gentlemen, forgive me—I nearly leapt out of my seat! The 29th minute! Julien! Julien again! A thunderous volley, and it's buried in the corner!
5–0!
France, in Mineirão, in Brazil's own back yard, have put five past them inside half an hour and this boy, not even twenty years old, has completed a hat-trick!
A hat-trick!
I can't believe my eyes!
Julien! Not yet twenty, and on the stage of a World Cup semifinal, he has written his own legend with a hat-trick! This is his 15th goal of this World Cup. He hasn't just broken the record for most goals in a single tournament—he has now equalled the all-time World Cup scoring record held by Ronaldo and Klose!"
Just then, the broadcast camera found Ronaldo in the stands.
His face appeared cloudy and dark.
"Ronaldo is here to see it with his own eyes," Alphonse said. "The legend we once thought no one could surpass. The Phenomenon, who used to set the World Cup blazing goal after goal, sitting there now in silence, watching his own national team get torn apart on home soil.
Watching a young successor draw level with the very record he holds. I can't imagine what must be going through his mind right now.
I imagine it's a tangle of feelings he can't begin to sort out.
Back to the match!
France are relentless. There isn't a shred of mercy in them—no easing off just because the lead is enormous. If anything they're playing with more fire, more fluency than ever.
Kanté and Pogba are a wall in midfield. Debuchy and Evra are sharp down the flanks. Giroud, Griezmann, and Julien up front move like a single mind. Who can possibly stop a France side like this?
We are watching a legend being born. We are watching a great French team launch its most ferocious assault yet on the World Cup title.
One more look at Ronaldo in the stands—he is still silent. Perhaps he's remembering his own glory days on this stage, remembering the honour Brazil once carried.
And now, that honour is being smashed apart, goal by French goal…"
In fact Ronaldo was not the only one sitting in silence.
Brazilian legend after Brazilian legend had gone quiet up there. Every face had turned grave.
Perhaps they were all thinking the same thing: if they themselves had been out on that pitch, surely it wouldn't have come to this.
Especially given how controversial this squad list had already been.
Scolari hadn't brought Kaká. Hadn't brought Ronaldinho, either.
In fact, leaving the two of them out made sense from a purely competitive standpoint.
Ever since Brazil had been knocked out in the quarterfinals last time, Ronaldinho's life had spiralled further and further out of control—heavy drinking, no discipline and at thirty-four, he was no longer the dancing elf he'd once been on the pitch.
As for Kaká, he was disciplined as ever, but his curse had always been injuries. He never seemed to take the field healthy, and it kept him from ever showing his true level.
And besides, Brazilian football has always had a figurehead for every era, from Pelé all the way to Neymar. Every man who has worn the number ten shirt for Brazil has been a superstar, appeared to be chosen by fate itself.
After Kaká, the team's core had already shifted to Neymar.
By around 2012, Neymar had already cemented his place as the squad's leader.
Leaving the two elders off the roster was, in its own way, clearing the road for Neymar.
But now, everyone understood—Scolari's decision would be picked apart and argued over for a long, long time.
Whatever the case
It was already 5–0.
That scoreline had snuffed out whatever fighting spirit Brazil had left.
Soon, play resumed.
Peep!
When the referee blew his whistle to restart the match, the deathly silence over Mineirão still hadn't lifted.
Brazil had abandoned the reckless, desperate attacking of before entirely. They'd pulled every player back behind the ball, and their old 4-2-3-1 had hardened, almost overnight, into a five-back, double-holding-midfielder wall of a formation.
They'd stopped hoping to score.
The only thought left was to hold the line to make sure, at the very least, the score didn't grow any wider before halftime, to keep the humiliation from becoming any harder to bear.
The rhythm of the match slowed to a crawl.
Most of the Brazilian players huddled near the edge of their own box. Passes turned cautious to the point of paralysis—sideways shuffles between the centre-backs, or simple lay-offs back to Gustavo and Fernandinho sitting in front of the back line.
Almost nobody dared push a pass forward. Even on the rare counterattacking chance, Hulk and Bernard would jog forward a couple of steps for the sake of appearances and no more—not a flicker of the courage it would take to actually run at someone.
It was as if every forward step carried the fear that France would seize on the gap and take one more goal.
All they wanted now was for the clock to run out faster.
France had read Brazil's mindset perfectly by now, too. They stopped pressing so hard and let the tempo drop, content to simply own the ball and save their own legs.
Brazil was, after all, genuinely brutally hot.
Once France had the ball, they didn't rush it forward—the sideways switch here and there, just enough to shift Brazil's defensive shape around.
Julien, Griezmann, and Giroud applied a mild pressure up front, never overcommitting, simply standing in the gaps of Brazil's defence and keeping them honest.
They didn't need any more goals to prove their point. This kind of silent control was, in itself, the most complete demolition they could hand Brazil.
More and more empty seats appeared in the stands.
Mineirão, once packed to the rafters, had visibly thinned out.
Plenty of Brazilian fans simply couldn't stomach a thrashing like this any longer, and chose to leave early. Their yellow shirts drifted, one by one, toward the exits, until nothing was left behind but bare seats.
And the handful who stayed, still sitting in silence.
The fans who remained wore no tears on their faces—only a kind of numb, hollowed-out despair, so total that even sighing took more than they had left to give.
Scolari still stood in the same spot, in that same statue-like posture.
Only now his shoulders had sagged.
He seemed, by this point, to have accepted this defeat that could never be undone to have accepted that this was the darkest day in Brazilian football history.
And yet even so, in the 38th minute, the calm on the pitch was broken once more.
Griezmann had the ball just outside the edge of Brazil's box, on the left, trying to work a way through with a sideways dribble. Gustavo, desperate, stuck out a leg to intercept and caught Griezmann across the shin instead.
Griezmann went down.
The referee's whistle sounded immediately.
Free kick!
And an excellent position for one, too.
Close to goal—well within range for a direct shot.
Watching the free kick take shape, the Brazilian commentator said, helplessly, "A free kick… another French free kick, and in this spot, this is dangerous.
I'll admit, my feelings right now are a mess. I don't want to see another goal. I don't want the score to get any uglier. I don't want one more mark added to the shame of Brazilian football.
But I have to say it—the man standing over this free kick is Julien De Rocca.
The prodigy who tied the all-time World Cup scoring record before he'd even turned twenty. His free-kick ability is among the very best in the world game today.
A position like this, with him standing over it—this is genuinely dangerous for Brazil…"
At that moment, every eye in the stadium turned to that young figure.
Julien stood over the ball. He bent down, set it carefully, then straightened and looked toward where his teammates were positioned in the box. His expression was calm.
As if what stood before him wasn't a free kick that could rewrite the scoreline, but just an ordinary shot in training.
Brazil lined up their wall. César stood in goal, hands braced on his knees, adjusting and readjusting where his teammates stood in the wall, again and again.
Still, nothing about it felt safe to him.
The broadcast's close-up camera locked onto Julien and held.
Mineirão fell silent once more, dead silent—everyone was holding their breath, waiting for this free kick to come.
Waiting for a result that might extend the humiliation or might, just possibly, offer a moment's reprieve.
Peep!!
The referee's whistle sounded for the kick.
Whoosh—
Julien drew one deep breath, then the run-up, the plant, the strike in one unbroken motion.
Thump!
The ball came off his foot carving a perfect arc, sailing clean over the Brazilian wall.
Right at its highest point, it dropped suddenly, sharply straight for the top corner, the dead zone in the upper right of the goal!
César had prepared for the possibility that Julien would simply shoot. He threw himself through the air, fingers straining every last inch and touched nothing but air.
The ball beat him there by a fraction of a second and slammed into the net.
Swish!
6–0!
In the 38th minute, Julien rewrote the scoreline once more with a perfect free kick and rewrote World Cup history along with it.
In that moment, there was no roar from Mineirão. Only a wave of weeping that swallowed the entire stadium.
The Brazilian fans, numb until now, finally lost their grip on that last shred of composure and shattered completely.
The ones who remained clutched at whoever was nearest to them and sobbed openly, tears were running down their faces, soaking into the yellow shirts pressed against their chests.
Someone had both hands wrapped around his head, crouched down in the stands, shoulders shaking violently, muttering the same words over and over:
"Enough. Please, no more." His voice was raw, hoarse, utterly without hope.
Someone else was slumped over the railing, crying until his whole body had gone limp, his eyes empty. This despair had long since gone past the pain of simply losing, it had settled somewhere deep in the hearts.
They were praying now for the match to end, praying for this slaughter, this humiliation, to finally reach its last page.
More and more empty seats opened up in the stands. Some fans, the instant they saw the ball hit the net, simply turned and quickened their pace toward the exit. They didn't want to stay another second, didn't want to watch their team ground down one more time, didn't want to see Julien rewrite the record book yet again, each one another twist of the knife.
The ones who stayed mostly sat with their faces buried in their hands. Nobody looked up at the pitch anymore. It was as if that stretch of green had turned into a wound, they no longer dared touch.
The Brazilian commentator's voice came through, cracking, broken into pieces: "It's in… it's in… De Rocca has done it. He has broken the all-time World Cup goalscoring record. He is now the top scorer in the history of this tournament.
I know this is his glory. The record for most World Cup goals in history—his, and his alone.
But for us—this… this is… humiliation…"
After the goal, Julien didn't roar or celebrate the way he had before.
He only smiled and turned toward his teammates as they closed in around him, folding into a light embrace with Pogba, Griezmann, and the others—there was nothing exaggerated, no wild shouting.
It was better to stay low-key, here, on Brazil's doorstep.
Then he lifted his head and gave a small wave toward the section where the French fans were gathered already a sea of noise, flags waving, voices chanting his name, the roar was deafening.
It created a jarring contrast against the sobbing coming from the Brazilian side.
On the sideline, Deschamps was smiling too. He gave a small shake of his head and reached over to pat his assistant coach on the shoulder. "This kid," he said, "is unbelievable."
From the group stage to the semifinal, from equalling the record to breaking it—not yet twenty, and Julien had sent wave after wave of French fans into a frenzy with goal after goal.
There was pride for his pupil in Deschamps's smile, and the thrill of victory, and something more besides—the weight of watching a new era arrive.
Julien had become the first man in World Cup history—a new legend that could not be surpassed.
On the pitch, the Brazilian players stood with their heads down. There was no anger left in them, no defiance—only a numb, hollow despair.
6–0!
In under forty minutes, Brazil had conceded six goals on home soil, on the stage of a World Cup semifinal, living through a massacre the likes of which had never been seen before.
Mineirão had witnessed the darkest day in the history of Brazilian football.
Soon, play carried on.
France had almost stopped attacking now, content to simply control the tempo and shuffle the ball around.
Brazil, for their part, no longer seemed to know how to play football at all.
All they wanted now was for the match to be over, for a chance to finally rest.
They didn't want to be out there anymore.
Fortunately, time moved quickly.
A few minutes slipped by all at once.
Peep!
The referee's long whistle sounded, and the first half came to its official close.
The scoreline sat there, glaring: 6–0.
Mineirão was wrapped in dead silence. The Seleção, on their own home soil, had been slaughtered by France inside a single half in less than forty minutes, every ounce of Brazilian football's pride had been ground to dust.
The signal carrying this lopsided semifinal disaster swept around the globe in an instant.
Hundreds of millions of fans stared at their screens—silent, stunned, sighing.
The eyes of the entire world were locked, unblinking, onto this unprecedented massacre on the football pitch.
For all of Brazil, July 8th would be carved permanently into the history books from that day forward—the darkest, most shameful black anniversary in a century of Brazilian football history.
The despair inside that stadium didn't stay inside it for long. It spread, fast, across the entire country.
The enormous gap between expectation and reality, the raw, overwhelming grief—it turned into an unchecked fury, and Brazilian fans, unable to accept a defeat like this, let their heartbreak overwhelm whatever reason they had left, venting it in wild, uncontrolled ways. Every major city dissolved into chaos almost at once.
The instant the scoreline locked in at 0–6 in the first half, Belo Horizonte, São Paulo, and other major cities were the first to erupt into large-scale fan unrest.
Around São Paulo's bustling financial district, crowds of fans whose emotions had completely broken poured into the streets, gathering in clusters, blocking the roads.
Screaming and roaring tore through the streets—despairing wails and furious curses tangled together, months of pent-up frustration was finally boiling over all at once.
Some fans, past the point of reason, tore Brazilian flags apart in public and set them on fire, right there in front of everyone—a kind of self-inflicted wound, a way of venting the shame and resentment burning inside them.
The chaos kept escalating.
The situation had completely slipped out of anyone's control.
Crowds of increasingly aggressive rioters took to the streets—smashing shops along the roadside, wrecking bars, destroying public property without a second thought, even looting storefronts in the confusion. Street violence played out again and again.
The situation grew more dangerous by the minute. Somewhere in the chaos of those streets, the sound of gunfire could be heard, and the already-tense mood of the country dropped straight to freezing.
To keep the riots from spreading any further, to head off any large-scale bloodshed, Brazil's government scrambled its highest-level security protocols.
Police and riot control forces mobilized across the country. Large numbers of fully armed police and riot units rushed to the main roads, the public squares, the places where fans had gathered—locking the areas down completely, sealing off the flow of people, forcibly breaking up the crowds causing trouble.
Police alone was unable to bring the unrest under control, and Brazil's armed forces stepped in soon after, on emergency footing.
A nation whose religion was football had gone, because of a single 6–0 first half, from despair on the pitch to unrest spreading across the entire country.
Grief blotted out the sky. Fury ran wild and unchecked.
That day all of Brazil lay steeped in shame, in agony, in chaos.
Meanwhile.
In the Mineirão locker room, Deschamps didn't open with a rundown of the first half. The first thing out of his mouth was aimed at every player in the room: "In the second half, I will not have a single one of you provoking them, taunting them, trying to rub it in—not one gesture, not from anyone!
Whoever doesn't listen won't be playing in the final!"
________________________________________________________
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