In This Life I Became a Coach-Chapter 50: Draw the Line

Date: Thursday, August 28, 2003

Behind him, the others stayed seated. Still talking. Still arguing. Still there.

Still together.

The next morning, they crowded into the media room at La Turbie. The chairs weren't made for watching TV. Half the players sat sideways, one leg hooked over the armrest, others leaning forward like the screen would move closer if they stared hard enough. No music. Just the low hum of the air conditioning and the shuffle of plastic water bottles being opened and closed, again and again.

Michel stood near the back, arms folded. He didn't need to explain anything. The screen already said it all.

UEFA CHAMPIONS LEAGUE GROUP STAGE DRAW – LIVE FROM MONACO

Rothen arrived late, plate of sliced melon in one hand, chewing with his mouth half-open. Giuly tossed a napkin at him without looking. Adebayor sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the screen like a kid waiting for cartoons.

"They better give us Madrid," he muttered. "I want to mark Figo."

"Mark?" Giuly said. "You'd ask for his shirt by the second minute."

"Still counts as pressure."

That got a laugh from somewhere near Zikos.

The camera panned across the Grimaldi Forum stage—branded backdrops, UEFA suits, former players with earpieces. The draw had already begun. Group A was half-full. Group B brought polite murmurs. Then came Group C.

The presenter paused. Card raised.

"Deportivo La Coruña."

Bernardi exhaled hard through his nose. "Tight side. Lots of runners. Still physical."

Demien leaned against the back wall, eyes steady.

"PSV Eindhoven."

Rothen muttered something under his breath, shook his head. "Dutch play like they've got springs in their knees."

"And finally—"

The pause stretched just a touch longer.

"AEK Athens."

The room stayed quiet for two seconds. Then someone behind Cissé let out a soft whistle. Adebayor was already grinning.

"Three countries. Three flights. Three times we won't sleep."

"Or three times they don't know what's coming," Giuly shot back.

The presenter moved on. Group D began to fill. But no one in the room paid attention anymore.

Michel cleared his throat. "Group C. That's us."

Demien didn't step forward. He didn't take the remote. He didn't give a speech.

"Deportivo play narrow but drop their wingers late. PSV want you to foul them in the half-space. Athens plays for second balls."

He waited a beat.

"They'll all try to set the tempo."

He didn't raise his voice. Just let the quiet settle for a second longer.

"So will we."

Xabi was standing near the corner, hands behind his back. He didn't say anything. Just nodded once, subtle. That was enough.

Morientes looked down at the printout Michel passed him. Then passed it to Bernardi. Then to Zikos.

"It's a good group," Morientes said. "Winnable."

"It's not about winning it," Demien said. "It's about surviving it. Long enough to find our edge."

Rothen folded his arms. "We going to Greece first?"

Michel shook his head. "Deportivo. First week of September."

Giuly leaned back in his chair, looked over his shoulder at Demien. "What's the plan?"

Demien didn't answer. Not yet.

Because he already knew how it would go.

Athens would nearly break them. Eindhoven would test their legs. And Deportivo would bleed them before anyone realized the game had even started.

But he didn't say any of that.

He just tapped the side of the screen where the fixtures were listed.

"None of that matters," he said.

"Not if we lose Sunday."

Morientes lifted his head. "Bastia."

"Home," Michel added. "And aggressive."

Demien turned toward the hallway. The players were still looking at the screen, but their focus had shifted now. Shoulders straighter. Voices fading. No one reaching for another slice of melon.

"We train in twenty," he said. "Start with timing. Then pressing. Then we talk about Bastia."

He left the room before they could ask anything else.

They trained in twenty.

The warm-up was brisk. No music, no small talk this time. Just boots hitting turf and voices low, clipped. The Champions League draw still lingered somewhere behind their eyes, but Demien didn't mention it again. He'd given them the list. Now it was Bastia.

The staff marked out lanes on the far side of the pitch—tight grids for pressing and ball escape, lines sharp with white powder. Michel stood by the cones with a clipboard under his arm, calling rotations. Players broke into threes. The intensity wasn't loud, but it was focused. Rothen didn't smirk. Giuly didn't drift. Zikos barked out instructions with no look back toward the coaches.

Demien watched from midfield, one hand tucked under the other, coat unzipped. He let it run.

Plašil and El Fakiri were first into the rotation. Cissé followed. They were working in tight bands, learning how to pull the press before Bastia's low block could collapse. Demien didn't interrupt—not until Rothen delayed his release by half a second, slowing the entire chain.

He raised a finger.

"Back," he said. "Again."

They reset without a word.

Evra pressed high in the next round, legs pumping, arms tight to his sides. Adebayor, late by a fraction, got caught on the third man and let the channel open.

Demien didn't stop it. Just waited for the ball to die.

Michel stepped in. "Reset."

They did it again. Then again. Until the tempo held.

On the far side, Xabi was paired with Bernardi. Their movement was quieter, less aggressive—more measured. They let the ball do the running, one-touch into space, recovery with intent. Morientes joined midway, linking them with a firm drop pass and pivot run that caught Cissé by surprise.

Demien noticed. He didn't speak.

Later, during the second half of the session, he moved to the wide channel, where Evra and Rothen were working through isolated overlaps.

The drill wasn't flashy. Ball to Rothen, return to Evra, cross low and early. Then again. Then again.

Demien watched five sequences before stepping in.

"Faster into the pocket," he said to Rothen. "No glide."

Rothen nodded, breathing heavy. "He's not releasing early enough."

Demien turned to Evra. "What do you think?"

Evra didn't answer right away. He looked at the shape. At Rothen's stance. At the tight pocket between the cone and the line.

"I'm slowing to match him," he said.

"Don't," Demien said. "Make him match you."

Evra didn't nod. He just turned and reset his run.

They tried it again. This time the overlap landed sharper. Rothen had to adjust, hit it earlier. The cross came in low, skipped once on the turf, clean through the near post. No finish—didn't matter. The movement was right.

Training ran long, but no one complained.

Cissé stayed behind with Adebayor to practice under-pressure releases. Plašil walked through passing lanes alone, dragging his finger across the white lines. Zikos stretched quietly with Morientes. D'Alessandro jogged short diagonals on the far side, alone, sleeves pushed to his elbows, sweat darkening the back of his shirt.

Demien finally walked to the sideline, took the water bottle Michel handed him, and didn't drink.

"They're focused," Michel said.

"They have to be."

Michel looked toward the squad gathering near the benches. "You think they've already moved past the draw?"

"No," Demien said. "But they know Sunday comes first."

Michel gave a short nod.

"You're starting Morientes?"

Demien didn't answer immediately. His eyes followed the striker as he bent to tie his laces. Quiet. Composed. No drama.

"We'll see tomorrow."

He looked back at the pitch one last time.

The cones were still out. Lines scuffed now. The sun had started to dip just slightly over the trees past the south fence.

He turned toward the tunnel.

"Make sure they stretch," he said to Michel. "Full session tomorrow. We don't leave Bastia breathing room."

Then he walked off. The turf still warm beneath his boots. His players behind him, still moving