In This Life I Became a Coach-Chapter 52: Bastia at the Gates — Second Half – The Weight of Control
Chapter 52: Bastia at the Gates — Second Half – The Weight of Control
They walked out in the same shape they entered. No handshakes this time. Just noise. Valley Parade heat pressed against the lights. The stadium sound had changed—more edge than celebration. Like the crowd knew something else was coming.
Demien stood near the fourth official, hand on Xabi's back as he stepped into position. Cissé jogged off without complaint, sweat streaking across his jaw. A quick clap to Bernardi. That was it.
Xabi didn't speak to anyone. Just found his spot. Dropped into the base and waited for the whistle.
It came.
Bastia kicked off, launched it long, but Rodriguez took it clean on the chest and played to Givet without pressure. One pass, then two. Monaco's rhythm snapped back into place like it never left.
Forty-eighth minute.
Xabi drifted left, feinted receiving, then cut back center—intercepted a lazy square ball from Bastia's eight and poked it forward before his foot hit the ground. Bernardi met it on the run, tapped it back.
One-two.
Xabi stepped into space.
No rush.
He lifted his head and saw the gap instantly—Giuly wide, fullback too high.
The ball was perfect. Flat and fast. Giuly didn't break stride. First touch forward, second touch across the box.
Morientes was already there.
Low finish. Open foot.
Three-nil.
The crowd didn't roar. It pulsed—waves of applause rising from every row, not wild, just exact. Like everyone had seen it coming and still loved it.
Morientes turned, pointed to Giuly, then looked at Xabi. Just one nod. That was enough.
Demien stayed still, arms crossed now. Michel turned to say something but paused. He didn't have to.
By the fifty-fourth minute, it was clear.
Xabi started playing between the lines like he'd always been there. No grand gestures. No arm waving. Just showing. Turning. Hitting the right angles before Bastia could close the trap.
He dropped between Givet and Rodriguez once, called for the ball with just a glance, then sent it forty yards into Evra's run. Another time, he bounced it twice through Bernardi, let the press come, then clipped it short and diagonally to D'Alessandro.
That one got a murmur from the stand.
Then came the chant. Not loud. Not coordinated.
But real.
"Xa-bi... Xa-bi..."
He didn't react.
Sixty-third minute.
D'Alessandro peeled left. Slipped behind Bastia's midfield with the weight of a man who knew exactly how much space they'd forgotten to cover.
Xabi stayed deeper. Let it happen.
The ball came to Andrés at the top of the arc. Defender squared up. Wrong foot forward.
D'Alessandro feinted right, shifted left, then rolled the ball between his feet and stabbed a no-look pass straight down the middle.
Morientes ran across his line, barely onside, opened up, finished across goal.
Hat-trick.
No celebration again.
Just a jog back, a small hand to the chest as he passed D'Alessandro.
Behind them, the Bastia captain barked orders with no bite. His hands were already on his hips.
Demien looked at Michel.
"We're not done."
Michel nodded and signaled the bench.
Plašil and Adebayor were already pulling on their bibs.
Demien didn't speak, just nodded once toward Michel, who passed the slip to the fourth official. The board lit up. Giuly saw it first, tapped Morientes on the back and pointed. Both of them started jogging toward the touchline before the whistle had even come.
Giuly walked off with a grin and a shrug, like he still had more to give but wasn't about to argue. Morientes gave Demien a small glance—no complaint, just routine. Job done.
Adebayor sprinted on like he'd been waiting all week. Plašil followed quieter, slipping into the midfield shape without needing a word. D'Alessandro didn't change expression, just shifted inside and started drifting into the right half-space where Giuly had lived all half. No reset. Just motion.
By now, Bastia weren't trying to hold shape. They were just trying to breathe.
The ball stayed red and white.
Xabi dropped into a deep triangle with the center-backs, took one pass, shaped his body like he'd switch it wide—but clipped it short to Bernardi instead. Another angle, another touch. Nothing fancy. Just control.
Demien stood on the edge of the technical area, arms at his side. He watched Adebayor chase into channels with long, loose strides. Watched Plašil tuck in, press from the second line. Watched D'Alessandro move as if he were setting traps no one could see yet.
They weren't chasing goals now. They were hunting something tighter than that—command, rhythm, sequence.
Eighty-third minute.
Corner won on the left after a double deflection. Rothen jogged over to take it but stopped when Xabi motioned with a finger.
Short.
Xabi stepped forward, took the ball at his feet, and tapped it once back toward the edge. D'Alessandro let it roll, then checked his shoulder, shaped like he'd shoot—and didn't. He rolled it left again. Rothen was still there, barely marked.
First time, inside of the left boot.
Low. Fast. Skidded across the grass and tucked inside the far post.
5–0.
Rothen didn't run. He just turned and pointed back at D'Alessandro. Andrés tapped his chest twice in return, then jogged past without waiting for anything more.
The stands rose. Not loud, not wild. Just steady. Appreciative. Applause that meant something had clicked.
Demien didn't clap.
He just looked toward the scoreboard, then back at his players.
Xabi collected the ball from the net and passed it to the Bastia keeper without a word.
From there, it was silence.
Twenty-seven passes without interruption.
Evra to Givet to Xabi. Back to Givet. Over to Plašil. Diagonal to Ibarra. Drop. Reset. Bernardi checks in. One-touch to Rothen. Back again. Around. Through.
Bastia didn't press anymore. They just followed the shadows.
When the final whistle came, it wasn't a relief.
It was confirmation.
Xabi and D'Alessandro walked off together, slow and quiet, sweat dark on their collars, their boots still biting at the dirt. At the edge of the tunnel, Xabi offered his fist once. Andrés met it, brief and firm. No words exchanged.
Michel was waiting by the wall.
Demien passed him, eyes forward.
Michel spoke without looking.
"You've got too many options now."
Demien didn't stop walking.
"That's the idea."
