In This Life I Became a Coach-Chapter 51: Bastia at the Gates — First Half – The Opening Statement

Chapter 51: Bastia at the Gates —  First Half – The Opening Statement

Date: Sunday, August 31, 2003

Sunday brought noise.

The tunnel buzzed louder than usual—not because Bastia brought numbers, but because Monaco had. The home end was nearly full before warmups even finished, and the kind of heat that clung to shirts didn't bother anyone. Not today. Not after the draw.

This was the first match since they saw the group.

Deportivo. PSV. Athens.

And now Bastia.

The away team stood rigid—arms behind their backs, eyes forward, tight formation even in the shadow of the tunnel. A low hum of instructions passed between them, French clipped and dry. No smiles.

Demien stood at the edge of the dugout. No coat. Sleeves rolled. One hand resting on the frame, the other loose at his side. He didn't speak. He didn't need to.

His eyes went from Rothen, to Morientes, to D'Alessandro.

Andrés caught the glance and held it for half a second. First start. No nod. No words. Just focus.

Kickoff landed clean—no fireworks, no whistles beyond the ref's. Just immediate intent. Bastia were compact. Two blocks of four. Line of pressure high enough to bite, but low enough to suffocate.

But Monaco didn't flinch.

Bernardi clipped the first switch of the match. Right to left. Rothen didn't even look before sending it back inside.

Cissé checked in, rolled the ball back to Rodriguez, and the rhythm started.

It was D'Alessandro who broke the first real line.

Eighth minute.

Bernardi got it to him between the pockets. Bastia's midfield pinched late—fraction too slow. D'Alessandro touched it twice, left foot then right, then cut it wide with a disguised flick.

Giuly ran onto it full speed. No extra touch. Just one low cross—near post.

Morientes was already there.

He didn't power it. He didn't overthink it.

Just let it run across his body and clipped it backward, inside the heel, past the keeper's wrong foot.

1–0.

No celebration.

Morientes turned and jogged back toward the center circle like he hadn't touched the ball at all. D'Alessandro exhaled. Not smiled. Not raised a fist. Just let it out.

Demien stepped forward once from the dugout. Nothing in his voice. Just clapped once, slow.

Reset.

Bastia tried to rattle them. Fifteenth minute, Evra broke down the left, skipping past one defender, but was chopped down hard from behind near the sideline. The ref's whistle came fast. Card out even faster.

Yellow.

Evra didn't stay down. He popped up with one hand bracing his back, took the ball, and walked away without eye contact. Rothen was already speaking to the ref, voice calm, but only just.

Demien didn't react.

He looked at the clock, then back to the players.

Still a long way to go.

Monaco kept the tempo steady. Not rushed. Not flat. Bastia sat deeper now, their front two dropping back into midfield just to survive the passing lanes. D'Alessandro started shifting wider, dragging his man out before cutting back in—drawing space instead of demanding it.

Twenty-second minute. Rothen picked up a loose second ball near the touchline, no pressure. He took a single step, leaned back, and hit it. No warning. Thirty yards out, maybe more.

It dipped late. The keeper saw it late. Got a hand to it, barely. Pushed it over.

Stadium leaned forward.

Morientes pointed to the corner flag. Rothen raised both hands and smirked. Small. Confident.

Demien didn't blink.

From the sideline, Michel adjusted his notepad, said nothing.

The corner didn't land. But the pressure stayed.

By the half-hour mark, Bastia had stopped trying to press. They just sat and waited.

Monaco didn't.

Thirty-first minute, D'Alessandro stood in the right half-space, scanned once, then lifted his head and curved the switch all the way across the pitch—shoulder high, bending to Rothen's left foot. It kissed the turf once.

Evra was already flying past.

Rothen didn't pause. Touched it once to Evra's stride and peeled wide.

The cutback came in low. First time.

Giuly darted across the near post, left his man flat. One step. Inside of the foot.

2–0.

The noise that followed was sharp—less cheer, more release. A goal that felt like the match telling the truth out loud.

Giuly slapped hands with Rothen first, then Evra, then turned back toward the middle like it wasn't done.

Andrés didn't join the celebration. He just walked back slowly, hands low, eyes already scanning again. Something in the rhythm felt like his now.

Demien adjusted his stance. No reaction. Just a glance toward Michel.

Rodriguez gave a thumbs-up to the bench. Givet waved both arms, telling the midfield to drop ten meters and reset.

It was clean.

It was controlled.

Thirty-eighth minute, D'Alessandro got caught in a pocket, back to goal. One touch. Two. Then he spun—sharp, left shoulder down, dragging the ball behind him with a feint that sent both Bastia midfielders the wrong way.

The third touch was already moving forward before his foot hit the ground. A flick.

Morientes saw it late but ran anyway. The pass threaded between both center backs like it knew where it belonged.

He finished low. fɾēewebnσveℓ.com

Flag went up.

Crowd groaned, collective and immediate.

Replay came on the big screen. Inches. Maybe.

Morientes didn't argue. Just jogged back.

D'Alessandro turned toward the bench. Demien held his gaze for a second. Nodded once.

Halftime didn't come with whistles. It came with tension.

Inside the dressing room, the mood was controlled. No one sat right away. Jerseys half off, water passed without asking. Rothen rubbed a knee. Giuly leaned over a table, hands flat. Cissé wiped sweat off his eyelids like it burned.

Demien waited.

Let them settle.

Then spoke, calm, but with edge.

"Don't manage it."

He paused.

"Kill it."

That stopped the shifting. Eyes locked.

"We've got them breathing through a straw. You let them up now, they'll take a swing."

He looked at Rothen. "Don't float off the timing. Go early or don't go."

At Giuly. "Near post. Every time."

Then finally at D'Alessandro.

"Keep your feet under you. You drop too far, you pull Bernardi out of the play."

Andrés nodded once. No words.

Demien didn't overtalk it. He didn't raise his voice. Just circled back to the start.

"We play. We press. We don't let up."

He walked toward the door and opened it.

"Ready in two."

Behind him, boots hit the floor again. No one looked down.