There was nothing wrong with what Deschamps had just said.
Just as the first half had ended, the assistant coach had already learned through staff outside the stadium about the series of unrest now sweeping through Brazil, and had informed Deschamps and the players.
God only knew what extremist fans might be capable of.
You didn't reason with extremist fans. And you especially didn't reason with South American extremist fans.
The French players nodded, one after another.
Then Deschamps continued, "I also need to remind you: we've only played half the match. A 6-0 scoreline doesn't mean everything is decided. For the next forty-five minutes, our first priority isn't scoring more goals—it's making sure everyone stays healthy."
He paused, his gaze settling on core players like Julien and Pogba. "Don't go throwing yourselves into reckless challenges or trying to show off just because we're up by a huge margin. Avoid unnecessary collisions and injuries. Walking off this pitch in one piece matters more than one more goal."
As he said this, a hunger kindled in Deschamps's eyes.
"If you want to play in the final—don't get hurt."
The World Cup.
The final!
Either word alone was enough to set a player's pulse racing—put the two together, and a man would be ready to give up everything he had.
And so the players nodded even harder. This was a moment that would make history—quite possibly the only World Cup final of their entire careers.
They had to cherish this chance.
"Second—possession." Deschamps walked to the tactics board and tapped lightly on the formation diagram. "Honestly, I don't know how Brazil will come out in the second half. Maybe they'll throw everything forward in a desperate push. Maybe they'll sit back and counter.
But whatever they do, what we need to do is keep a firm grip on the tempo of this match.
Hold the ball steady in midfield. Pass with precision. Work it side to side, stretch their defence. Don't give the ball away cheaply. Losing possession doesn't just hand them a chance to counter—it could inflame tempers on the pitch, and that's the last thing we want."
Having said this much, he drove the point home once more.
"And I want to stress this again, one more time—absolutely do not provoke their players, and do not provoke the Brazilian fans in the stands, either!"
He hardened his tone. "You all know how volatile things are outside this stadium. The Brazilian fans have already been through enormous pain. One provocative gesture, one careless word, could set off far worse trouble—could even threaten our own safety.
I don't want that!"
"Understood!"
The players answered again in unison.
For the sake of the World Cup final, they needed to keep a low profile now. And there was no reason to provoke trouble in a match they'd already all but won.
Then Deschamps turned to face the whole squad once more and summed it up. "We already hold an overwhelming advantage. In the second half, we don't need to keep pushing forward, we don't need to run up the score. Just play it steady.
Hold onto possession. Protect yourselves. Respect our opponents. Respect the fans. Bring this win home safe and sound—that's what matters most right now.
Of course—if a counterattacking chance comes along, I don't want you wasting it either."
That was the French side.
In Brazil's locker room, a miserable atmosphere began to swallow everyone.
There was no shouting or arguing. Not even a single unnecessary word.
Only stifled sobbing, broken and intermittent.
It was in every inch of the air.
Everywhere you looked, every player sat with their head bowed deep, shoulders slightly slumped, hands either clenched around their jerseys or hanging limp at their sides.
No one comforted anyone else. Each man was drowning alone in his own pain, unable to pull himself out.
Down 0-6 at the half—on their own home soil, on the stage of a World Cup semifinal. A defeat this crushing was a nightmare none of them had ever lived through in their careers.
Ramires was curled up in a corner of the locker room, his back against the cold wall, arms wrapped around his knees, head buried deep in the crook of his elbow. Muffled crying leaked out from that hollow.
He didn't need anyone's blame. He didn't need anyone's hollow comfort, either.
Right now, there was only one thought in his heart, one desire so humble it was desperate: he just wanted to be with his mother, with his brothers. He just wanted to be comforted by the people closest to him, to feel them near even if no one said a word, as long as they were there, that would be enough.
No one could understand what it felt like to walk off that pitch.
That kind of despair—giving everything you had and still being utterly powerless was truly beyond words.
He thought of his family's hopes before the match. He thought of the honour of wearing this yellow shirt. He thought of the roar of the fans in the Mineirão stands.
But all of it in the face of a six-goal first-half rout had become just another piece of the nightmare.
In the centre of the locker room, captain David Luiz stood, his expression was just as grim.
With Thiago Silva suspended, the devastating weight of steadying the team had fallen onto his shoulders.
He took a deep breath, trying to shock his sunken teammates back to life. "Heads up! Everyone—heads up, now!"
His voice cut harsh through the silent locker room. "I know you're hurting. I know this is humiliating. But the match isn't over! We are Brazil! We wear the shirt of the Seleção! Are we really just going to accept defeat like this? Are we really going to let ourselves be crushed like this?"
He paused, his eyes swept over every downcast teammate. "If we lose, we have to lose with dignity! If we can't turn this around, we will fight to the very last second! Don't forget—all of Brazil is behind us, countless fans out there still counting on us! Wake up! All of you, wake up!"
But his cry sank like a stone into deep water. It stirred nothing.
The players kept their heads bowed.
The team had already sunk into total panic. Every man's heart was flooded with disbelief—how could a rout like this, a massacre like this, possibly happen on a football pitch?
How could it possibly happen on the stage of a World Cup semifinal?
How could it possibly happen to the Samba Kings, the team they took such pride in?
Someone silently raised their head, looked at David Luiz, and a flicker of guilt crossed their eyes but still they found no courage to stand, no courage to face the second half.
That kind of despair, sunk into the core of their heart had already completely broken their will.
It was as if the second half was nothing but a torment to be endured until it ended.
As for Scolari, he hadn't even come into the locker room. He had no idea how to face any of this, either.
Soon.
Halftime was over.
Both teams emerged once more from the players' tunnel and stepped back onto the Mineirão turf.
Unlike the roar that had greeted kick-off in the first half, the stadium now held only cheering from one side.
Nearly all of it came from the stands packed with French fans, flags waving, voices raised loud for their team, for Julien.
It rang through the entire stadium.
As for the Brazilian fans who remained in their seats, whatever passion they'd once had was long gone. They had fallen into total silence.
They sat like living statues, stiff in their seats, eyes hollow as they stared out at the field. No shouting. No crying. Not even a spare flicker of expression.
Their gazes trailed numbly after the players on the pitch—not hoping for a miracle, just waiting, blankly.
Waiting for this humiliating match to finally reach its end.
Peep!
The referee's whistle sounded, starting the second half.
Brazil came out pressing forward on the attack—perhaps David Luiz's halftime cry had stirred some faint response after all, or perhaps they simply refused to keep taking the punishment lying down, wanting to claw back a shred of dignity for themselves, and for the fans who'd stayed.
Hulk tried to break through down the right flank. Bernard dropped into midfield to link play. Fred held the ball up front.
Facing Brazil's push, France looked unbothered.
Their ball control, against a Brazilian side whose focus had completely fractured, was magnified to the extreme.
Pogba and Kanté were nothing short of a wall in midfield. They won the ball back in no time.
Then France kept a firm grip on the match's tempo, and an occasional switch of play would casually pull Brazil's back line out of shape.
Brazil threw everything they had into winning back the ball, only to see it calmly swept aside by France, time and time again.
They couldn't even get close to the penalty box.
The tempo turned unusually flat. Chances were scarce on both ends.
Brazil's attacks never came close to troubling France's goal—all sound and no threat. France, meanwhile, held the game totally in hand, no longer in any hurry to attack, content just to keep the ball, occasionally probing forward, never pressing the point.
Protect everyone's health. Avoid unnecessary conflict.
In the 60th minute, France made a substitution—Julien came off, replaced by Valbuena.
As Julien received the signal to come off, he walked toward the touchline, slapping hands with his teammates one by one along the way.
The stand packed with French fans erupted once more into thunderous cheers, louder even than any cheer that had followed a goal.
Julien waved back up at the fans in the stands.
The next time they'd meet again—it would be the final!
The final!
Julien's heart burned hot.
The word echoed over and over in his heart, and with every echo, his pulse quickened a little more.
The moment Julien learned he was being subbed off, he'd already begun picturing the final.
He knew clearly, too, that the Netherlands would ultimately lose to Argentina—that France's opponent in the final would be that same Argentine side, just as hungry for the trophy.
And he knew, more clearly still, that Argentina's squad held Messi—a footballing legend who'd already won every honour the club game had to offer, achieved the sport's grand slam, yet still lacked the one top-tier trophy that mattered at the international level.
Messi wanted that World Cup crown too!
A glint of edge flashed across Julien's eyes. Of course he wasn't going to let Messi have his dream fulfilled.
He had more than enough confidence in himself!
This current squad was the weakest France would field for several World Cups to come and if they could beat Argentina in this final, then Julien could make sure Argentina stayed shut out of the trophy for several more tournaments after this.
France's talent was obvious for everyone to see. Talent was pouring out of the country.
More young prodigies were rising by the day. This team could only grow stronger. The future of football would belong to France, in the end.
As Julien left the pitch, the Brazilian fans in the stands still just watched in silence—no anger, no envy, only some tangled feeling too complex to put into words.
They watched his retreating figure quietly—this young man who had made history on their home turf, who had brought them this humiliation and deep down, they couldn't help but admit one thing: Julien was strong. Truly, remarkably strong.
His technique, his talent—both far surpassed many legendary stars.
Against an opponent like this, Brazil hadn't lost unjustly.
Julien sat on the bench, his gaze remained calm as he watched the pitch.
Deschamps was clearly intent on a safe finish. Not long after Julien came off, he pulled Pogba and Giroud as well, to avoid any needless risk of injury.
On the other side, Scolari made his own helpless adjustments, pulling his starters off one after another, sending on the substitutes.
He knew the match had lost all suspense long ago. All he could do now was try to minimize the psychological damage to his players, and preserve some scrap of dignity for the team.
After both sides shuffled through their changes, the tempo of the match stayed just as flat.
And yet—Valbuena, finally getting his chance to play in this semifinal, had something to prove.
In the 68th minute, France launched a counterattack. Valbuena received a pass from a teammate in midfield, shrugged off Brazil's defender in one motion, drove hard down the right flank, cut inside the box, and lofted a chip shot straight at goal!
The ball settled firmly into the net!
7-0!
Valbuena was clearly thrilled after scoring, but he'd taken Deschamps's words to heart.
He made no showboating. He just turned and gave the teammate beside him a light hug with a faint smile on his face, his eyes were deliberately avoiding the Brazilian fans in the stands and the Brazilian players on the field.
He was afraid his own actions might provoke an opponent already on the verge of collapse even further.
Brazil's players had gone completely numb.
The Brazilian fans still left in the stands remained just as silent as before.
Scolari stood on the sideline, his face was blank. He'd already started thinking about the post-match interview—he had a rough idea what the reporters would ask, and he was already working out how he'd answer.
Just twelve minutes later—in the 80th minute, Valbuena struck again!
France whipped in a cross from the flank; a Brazilian defender fumbled the clearance, and the ball dropped right at Valbuena's feet. Without a moment's hesitation, he fired a rocket of a shot at rocketing pace, cutting straight through Brazil's defensive line and beat César's goal once more.
8-0!
In just twenty minutes, Valbuena had scored twice, pushing the scoreline further and driving Brazil's humiliation to its peak!
This time, Valbuena nearly couldn't hold himself back from celebrating.
In the end, he only traded light high-fives and hugs with his teammates, even deliberately turning his back toward the Brazilian fans, the smile on his face was growing more restrained.
At this point, Brazil was already beyond fighting back. Any exaggerated celebration now would be a disrespect to the opponent, an insult to this heartbroken ground itself.
The rest of the French team fell into the same unspoken understanding—they made no wild celebrations, just a brief round of congratulations before hurrying back to their positions, staying focused on the match.
The match moved into stoppage time. Only a few minutes remained on the clock.
France still held the game firmly in hand, no longer pushing forward, just calmly rolling the ball around in midfield, waiting for the final whistle.
Just as everyone assumed the match would end with the lopsided scoreline of 8-0, something dramatic happened on the pitch.
Brazil launched a counterattack—it was not much of a threat, really.
The pass went a little too deep.
Lloris rushed out and got there first to gather the ball, but instead of clearing it away immediately, he held it at his feet for a moment, checking his teammates' positions and stalling for time, a little.
Hulk jogged up to apply a token bit of pressure, not really thinking anything would come of it.
But—
Lloris just had to show off a little. When Hulk closed in to press, he tried a little flick to knock the ball past him.
It looked, for a moment, like he'd wrong-footed Hulk. But this one time, he'd overplayed his hand!
The touch ran a bit too heavy. Hulk instinctively stuck out a foot to intercept, and Lloris, sensing something was wrong, rushed to get to the ball first.
The two of them tangled feet, and the ball squirted away, mishit.
It ran straight into the middle of the pitch.
Oscar spotted the chance and surged forward at once—one deft chip, and the ball sailed over Lloris and dropped into the empty net.
1-8!
A goal to salvage a little face.
Oscar didn't celebrate. There wasn't a trace of joy on his face. He jogged into the net, pulled the ball out, and ran on back toward the centre circle.
He knew this goal, against a scoreline as lopsided as 8-0, felt so pale, so powerless—it was nowhere near enough to cover for the team's collapse, nowhere near enough to soothe the wound in the hearts of the Brazilian fans.
Lloris stood outside the box, his face was full of frustration, his hands were slapping hard against his forehead with self-blame.
A mistake like that never should have happened. Maybe it was the long stretch of relaxed defending that had let his guard slip.
His teammates came up one after another and patted him gently on the shoulder, telling him without words not to blame himself—after all, this one mistake wasn't going to change how the match ended.
No.
It wasn't going to change the result.
In the end, Stoppage time ran out!
Peep!
The referee blew one final whistle, and the match was officially over!
The final score settled at 8-1!
France, with a crushing, one-sided victory, defeated Brazil and advanced to the final of the 2014 FIFA World Cup Brazil.
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