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Chapter 290: Russia Part 3 (End)
🕑 Added 2025-11-03 02:17:11 +0000 UTCITV Studio – Halftime Show | June 11, 2016 | England 1–0 Russia
The feed cut from the roaring chaos of the Vélodrome to the cool polish of the ITV studio in Paris.
The faint hum of the Marseille crowd still pulsed under the lights, like the sound refused to die down even hundreds of miles away.
Mark Pougatch sat at the center, papers in hand, a grin tugging at his lips as he looked straight into the camera. To his left was Roy Keane. To his right — Ian Wright, already shaking his head in disbelief, and Gary Neville, calm but visibly buzzing as he was part time assistant manager of England before leaving a few weeks ago.
Behind them, the massive screen replayed that moment: Tristan’s free kick, the perfect curl, the eruption that followed.
Mark leaned forward slightly, his voice warm and charged with pride. “Well… that’s how you announce yourself to a tournament, isn’t it? England one, Russia nil at the break and it’s that man again, Tristan. Twenty-two yards out, top corner, perfection. Roy, you said before kickoff this was going to be a test of maturity for the youngest England squad in sixty years. What are you seeing so far?”
Roy Keane’s expression softened into pride and joy. “I’m seeing control, Mark. Real control. They’ve not just shown up to play — they’ve shown up to own it. The press, the mentality, the work rate… it’s all spot on. And with Tristan leading that, calm as you like? That’s what you get when you’ve got the world’s best player in full command.”
Wright leaned forward, half laughing, half still stunned.
“Come on though, Roy — that goal!” he said, gesturing wildly toward the screen. “That’s not control, that’s sorcery! You foul him there, you may as well start packing the bus, ‘cause the keeper’s got no chance. That ball moved, man! It’s a cheat code.”
Gary Neville chuckled, shaking his head. “It’s not just the goal though, Wrighty. Look at what happens before it — ten passes, high press, Tristan drops into midfield, draws two men out, then wins the foul himself. That’s not random. That’s orchestrated. It’s exactly what Leicester did all season. They suffocate you, force the mistake, and bang they punish you.”
Roy pointed toward the screen. “He’s right. That’s not a lucky free kick. That’s a consequence. That’s a team executing everything they’ve trained for. Russia haven’t had a second on the ball.”
Wright laughed, throwing his hands up. “I don’t care if it’s a consequence or a gift from heaven — it’s filthy. And the confidence he’s got! Twenty years old, opening game, and he smacks it in like he’s been captain for a decade.”
Mark smiled, nodding. “You can feel it, can’t you? That swagger. England haven’t played with this kind of momentum for years now until this generation came up.”
Gary leaned back, gesturing subtly. “And it’s not arrogance either. It’s conviction. He expects to deliver. It’s like he’s saying, ‘Yeah. This is what I do.’”
Roy smirked slightly. “That’s what frightens teams. You can see it in their eyes. They’re not just up against England. They’re up against Tristan.”
Wright laughed again, nudging Gary. “He’s not wrong. Look, Gary, you’ve played with Beckham, Gerrard, Rooney — big names. You ever seen anyone this young take control of an England side like this?”
Gary hesitated — just for a moment — then nodded. “Honestly? No. I haven’t. The maturity’s unreal. Beckham had the technique, Gerrard the drive, Rooney the fire — but Tristan’s got all three. And the scary part is, he makes it look effortless.”
Roy folded his arms again, nodding. “He’s the best player in the world right now. Simple as that.”
Mark exhaled, the faint sound of fans still echoing behind their words. “And that goal — already being compared to Payet’s winner last night. France with the late drama, Dimitri Payet bending one into the top corner to start the tournament…”
Roy grunted approvingly. “Credit where it’s due, Mark great strike. But that France side looks soft at the back. Romania found space. England wouldn’t give them that. If they meet later in this tournament, Tristan will fancy his chances.”
Wright laughed. “He fancies himself every time! That’s what I love about him. He’s fearless.”
Gary nodded toward the schedule graphic that appeared behind them — tomorrow’s fixtures lighting up the board.
“Tomorrow’s going to be massive, too. Croatia, Germany, Poland — all the big hitters coming out. Croatia especially — Modrić, Rakitić, Perišić — that’s a team full of class. And Germany, well…” he smiled faintly, “Germany never turn up without a plan.”
Mark leaned back with a grin. “But tonight — it’s all about England. England one, Russia nil. Tristan’s free kick separates them at the break. When we come back — analysis, highlights, and a look ahead to the second half. But for now, remember this moment — because the Crown Jewel of England… has only just begun to shine in France.”
The feed cut back to Marseille — the camera catching fans waving flags, chanting over the French evening air:
🎵 “TRIS-TAN! TRIS-TAN! TRIS-TAN!” 🎵
Even through the studio mics, you could still hear it — echoing faintly across the Channel.
The ITV broadcast faded away on chants of
🎵“TRIS-TAN! TRIS-TAN! TRIS-TAN!” 🎵 echoing through the Marseille night —
but down below the concrete stands, there was no music.
Only the hum of the air vents and the drip of condensation rolling down the pipes.
The Russian dressing room felt claustrophobic. The red paint on the walls was chipped and sweating under the heat.
The players sat scattered — silent, still, their eyes fixed on the floor like they were staring into the moment they’d lost the game.
Akinfeev sat forward on the bench, gloves off, elbows on his knees. He’d replayed it five times already in his mind, the curl, the spin, the half-second too late.
Dzagoev leaned back against the wall, eyes closed, jaw set so tight a vein pulsed at his temple.
Even Berezutski, the veteran, was stone quiet.
No one dared look at each other.
Then —
“I told you!”
Slutsky’s voice shattered the silence like glass.He kicked the door shut behind him, clipboard already in hand, face flushed red. “I told you!” he roared again, words slamming against the walls. “You can foul Kane! Foul Vardy! Hell, foul the water boy if you want but not him!”
His voice cracked with disbelief, spit catching in the air as he jabbed a finger toward the whiteboard. “Not Tristan Hale! Not twenty-two bloody yards from goal!”
The room tensed. Boots squeaked against tile. No one spoke.
Slutsky’s breathing came in heavy bursts, his hand shaking as he drew a ragged circle on the tactics board.
“You’ve all watched the footage! Every single one of you! We studied him for two weeks. Two weeks! What did I say?” He slammed the marker against the board.
“Foul him early, foul him wide, drag him down if you have to but never, ever let him see the goal from there!”
He spun, eyes burning toward the two culprits.
Denisov sat frozen, gaze fixed on his boots. Neustädter swallowed hard, shoulders tightening.
“You gave him the one thing he lives for! A free shot at history!”
He pointed toward the ceiling now, voice trembling with fury. “Did you see the way he walked away after scoring? Like it was nothing! Like he expected it! You handed him that moment!”
Still, no one met his eyes. A few heads bowed. Someone muttered a curse in Russian.
The air was thick with shame.
Then — from the back of the room — a quiet voice. Golovin. Youngest of them all. Barely twenty. “He’s too fast,” he murmured, eyes down.
For a heartbeat, Slutsky froze. Then he gave a dry, bitter laugh. “Then slow him before he turns.” He paced again, each step heavier than the last. “Don’t let him dance. Don’t let him look up. You press him before he breathes, do you hear me?”
He slammed the marker down again, this time so hard it bounced off the board and rolled under the bench. He stopped there, chest heaving, eyes darting across his players, men he’d trusted, men now hollowed by one strike of brilliance.
When he spoke again, his tone had changed. “Second half,” he said quietly, “we make it ugly. Tight. Nasty, if we have to. I don’t care. You stay on him like a shadow. If he touches the ball, I want him on the grass the next second. No more space. No more gifts.”
War was coming.
And they had to be ready to bleed for it.
The tunnel lights spilled out onto the pitch like a curtain rising on act two.
A roar built even before the first player stepped into view — a deep, rolling sound that started in one corner and spread through eighty thousand lungs until the entire stadium shook.
England and Russia emerged.
Up in the gantry, Clive Tyldesley’s voice rose above the storm, that perfect mix of theatre and control. “Welcome back to the Stade Vélodrome in Marseille. The sun has gone down, the lights are blazing, and the noise… well, it hasn’t stopped for a single second. England lead one-nil.”
Beside him, Lee Dixon leaned forward, eyes fixed on the pitch.
“They’ve been outstanding, Clive. Disciplined, aggressive, smart. That first half was everything you want from a side trying to make a statement — composure and bite in equal measure.”
The camera panned wide — the stadium a cauldron of red, white, and blue.
On one side of the Vélodrome, the English end was a wall of noise — white shirts pressed against the barriers, flags snapping under the floodlights.
“Where’s your football? Where’s your fight?!” someone roared through a megaphone, and within seconds the chant spread like wildfire.
🎵 “You’ll never beat the English boys! You’ll never beat the English boys!” 🎵
Across the divide, the Russian supporters rose as one, waving scarves like battle standards. A red flare hissed to life, its smoke curling through the air as their answer came in a booming chorus:
🎵 “Russia! Russia! We’ll break your golden boy tonight!” 🎵
Bottles of water flew from one section to the next — plastic missiles that never reached their target but drew gasps all the same.
🎵 “EN-GER-LAND! EN-GER-LAND!” 🎵
🎵 “ROSS-I-YA! ROSS-I-YA!” 🎵
“Just listen to that,” Clive said from the commentary box, his voice almost drowned by the roar. “The Stade Vélodrome has turned into a cauldron! The atmosphere is ferocious!”
Lee nodded, scanning the Russian formation on the monitor. “Look at this. Russia have made changes — Shirokov and Ivanov are on. They’re plugging that midfield, trying to slow England down, stop Tristan from dictating. But good luck with that.”
Clive chuckled softly. “Not an easy task, is it? You stop the pass, he dribbles. You press him, he draws the foul. You drop off, and he picks you apart. That’s the problem with world-class talent — every plan comes with a price.”
Down on the pitch, the camera found Tristan standing at the center circle beside Harry Kane.
The whistle pierced the air.
Tristan tapped the ball sideways to Kane — and the second half roared to life.
The crowd came alive instantly, a wall of noise slamming back into the pitch.
Clive’s voice rose over it all. “And we’re back underway in Marseille! England leading by one — that man, Tristan Hale, with the difference so far!”
Lee leaned forward in his seat. “Now it’s about control, Clive. The first ten minutes — that’s survival time. For both sides. Russia can’t chase shadows, and England can’t get complacent.”
Down on the pitch, Vasili Berezutski didn’t move at first.
He stood still — eyes locked not on the ball, but on him.
On 22.
There was no mistake anymore. Letting him shoot was the sin that changed everything.
“Push up! Keep the shape!” Vasili barked, voice already hoarse.
He was thirty-four, slower than most, but he knew a battle when he saw one — and Hale wasn’t a footballer. He was a siege engine in boots.
England began to circulate possession — Dier to Stones, Stones to Henderson, Henderson wide to Chilwell. Each pass pulled Russia an inch closer to breaking.
Vasili never shut up. “Move! Left shoulder! Watch nine! Watch twenty-two!” He repeated the numbers like prayer, superstition, or survival.
When Kane drifted near, he threw a shoulder. When Vardy tried to spin behind, Vasili clipped his heel — just enough to break rhythm, never enough for yellow. When Dele surged through the middle, he threw out an arm, muttering a curse in Russian as if to cast it.
“Berezutski’s playing dirty,” Lee said, a grim chuckle in his tone. “He’s walking that line — smart defending, ugly fouls. He knows if they open up, it’s over.”
Clive’s reply came sharp, alive with energy.
“That’s experience, isn’t it? He’s seen this before. You can feel the Russian mindset — drag the tempo, make it a fight, stop England from turning this into a sprint.”
Boos rained from the English section every time the Russians slowed play — every shove, every cynical nudge.
“Come on, ref!” echoed through the stands, followed by whistles and jeers.
On the far touchline, Roy Hshouted instructions, palms open, urging calm. “Move the ball! Don’t take the bait!”
But on the pitch, it was Tristan who took charge.
He raised a hand, gesturing for patience. “Keep it! Keep it moving!”
The ball pinged across midfield — Chilwell, Henderson, Tristan. Ali.
Tristan never stopped moving.
He floated past markers like he had no bones in his ankles. Switched flanks. Dropped deep. Played balls behind the back line without looking. Vasili watched one of those passes roll through two defenders like a heat-seeking missile and nearly lost it.
“Get a body on him!” he screamed at Denisov. “If he gets the ball, foul him early! I don’t care — we’re not giving him another free shot!”
He chased Kane into the corner on one sequence, nearly lost him, recovered, and shoved him into the signage. Kane turned to protest.
“Shut up kid,” Vasili muttered under his breath in English. “Everyone bleeds tonight.”
By the hour mark, Vasili’s calves were screaming.
Every clearance felt like swinging a hammer underwater. Every switch to the weak side felt like dragging a dead weight across his back. The Russian midfield was spent — Dzagoev’s touches had become clumsy, Shirokov was bending at the waist with every run.
And still it stayed 1–0.
Still.
Vasili glanced at the clock. 67:41.
He could feel the pressure building — like a dam behind his forehead. The England fans were chanting louder now.
They thought it was over.
And then — it happened.
70:08.
A clearance from Akinfeev. Wild. Long. Bounced once.
And somehow, miraculously, it dropped into space.
Ivanov charged onto it. He didn’t think. He didn’t look. He just hit it.
The shot came from twenty-five yards. A hit-and-hope.
Vasili held his breath.
The ball cut through the air like a skipping stone. Hart dove — late. Too late.
It went in.
Top corner. Net rippled.
The silence in the Vélodrome lasted a full second. A single, sharp breath held by eighty thousand.
Then — explosion.
“YESSSS!” Vasili roared, arms to the sky. His legs forgot they were sore. He turned and sprinted, all the way toward Ivanov, yelling in Russian, arms wide.
The Russian bench erupted — fists pounding the air, coaches leaping like schoolchildren.
Smoke burst from their end of the stadium. Flags unfurled, scarves tossed into the air.
The England fans?
Silent.
Vasili spun back toward his own half, pumping his fists, heart racing. His teammates caught up, mobbed Ivanov, kissed his head, grabbed his shoulders.
As he jogged back to reset, Vasili let himself look at Tristan — just once.
England’s captain stood at the halfway line, head down, adjusting his shin pad, unreadable.
No panic. No fury.
Just… stillness.
Which terrified Vasili more than the goal had excited him.
Because he knew what came next from the psychopath. The monster thrived off pressure.
And this time, they had twenty minutes to survive it.
The Russian bench exploded — fists pumping, arms flailing, substitutes pouring down the sideline as if they’d just won the whole tournament.
But across the pitch, England stood frozen.
The camera cut to the players.
Stones stared at the turf, muttering a curse. Henderson kicked at the ground, fury in his eyes.Kane wiped sweat from his brow, shaking his head in disbelief.
Vardy spat hard, hands on his hips. “One shot,” he barked. “One bloody shot all game.”
Lee’s voice came sharp from the commentary box. “Oh, that’s a gut-punch, Clive! One moment of magic from Russia — out of absolutely nothing! England have dominated every minute of this match, and it’s one-one!”
“And look at those faces, Lee. Disbelief. Shock. That goal came from another postcode! From Narnia!”
Lee chuckled, half exasperated. “From Mars, Clive! He’s hit that from miles out! But that’s football, one second of madness, and you’re level again!”
Down on the pitch, England began to regroup.
Tristan bent down first, tugged his socks higher, adjusted his shin pad. Then he stood up and looked to the sideline.
One hand raised. One finger pointed.
Don’t sub.
Roy Hodgson blinked, processing then nodded.
Back in the huddle, Tristan’s voice cut through the noise — calm but sharp, like a knife through smoke.
“Listen up.”
Every head turned. Kane. Vardy. Dele. Stones. Chilwell. Henderson.
“You want to win a tournament?” Tristan said. “Then earn it.” “No excuses. Don’t panic now.”
Vardy growled, still fuming. “They’re hacking us, mate. Every bloody time we touch it.”
Tristan snapped back, voice rising. “Then punish them!” He pointed toward the Russian half. “They foul because they’re scared.”
He stepped closer now, voice dropping almost commanding. “We started this game together. We finish it together. Keep the ball. Stay calm. Don’t rush. I’ll pull the defenders out — you find the gaps. They won’t give me another shot, but they’ll give you space.”
Kane nodded. “Alright then.”
Dele smacked his hands together. “Let’s bury them.”
Vardy cracked a grin — feral, teeth flashing. “Oi, Harry — hit the bloody target this time, yeah?”
Kane rolled his eyes, but it broke into a smirk. “You first.”
They weren’t having the best of games compared to their forms in the league.
“Back in shape!” Tristan barked.
The referee blew his whistle.
Tristan stepped over the ball in the center circle. Kane beside him.
The noise was deafening again — Russian fans roaring their anthem, English supporters trying to drown it out with defiance.
Clive raised his voice over the chaos.
“The game’s alive! One-one in Marseille. As we just seen anything could happen in the next twenty minutes.”
The whistle shrieked.
The ball rolled.
War resumed.
The noise didn’t fade. It rose.
It was chaos — rhythm, thunder, and pure tribal warfare.
The stands shook beneath it, the floodlights trembling in the Marseille heat.
From one end came the Russians — fists hammering the air, red flares painting the smoke. “ROSS-I-YA! ROSS-I-YA!” they roared, pounding on the metal boards. Their flags snapped like gunfire, drums echoing beneath the stands.
And from the opposite end — defiant, ragged, and unbroken — came the English.
🎵 “YOU’RE GOING HOME IN A RUSSIAN AMBULANCE!” 🎵
🎵 “ENGLAND TILL I DIE!” 🎵
The noise was violent, alive, endless.
But the noise was the last thing on England’s mind as they took control.
Henderson rolled the ball through the middle, found Tristan in the half-space — one touch, spin, flick — and suddenly Kane was free.
Clive leaned forward in his seat, voice rising with the moment. “Kane through on goal—!”
He scuffed it. Dragged it wide.
Lee’s groan hit before the crowd’s. “Oh, he’s snatched at it! That’s panic, Clive, he’s got time, and he’s panicked!”
Kane threw his head back, swore under his breath. Vardy’s arms flew out wide pure frustration. “Play it quicker next time!”
But Tristan didn’t linger. He moved again, always moving, dropping deep, ghosts of defenders trying to chase him. He weaved through the middle, turned his hips, slipped it wide.
Walker sprinted to meet it, whipped a low cross in first time.
Clive’s voice cracked with hope.
“Vardy near post—!”
Over.
The ball hit the stands. The groan returned, heavier this time.
Lee exhaled through his teeth.
“That’s the chance. That’s his goal. That’s the Jamie Vardy finish, and it’s gone begging.”
Clive’s tone darkened.
“And the longer it stays level, the more belief you give Russia. England are doing everything but finish.”
Slutsky was a madman on the sideline, coat half unzipped, screaming himself hoarse. “HOLD! STAY! BLOCK!” he roared. His players obeyed — red shirts flying at every loose touch.
78th minute.
Stones to Henderson. Henderson to Dele.
Dele flicked it — blocked again.
The rebound fell to Tristan. One touch, spin, threaded pass through the lines.
Kane dummied — but Vardy didn’t read it. Another miss.
Lee’s hands hit the desk.
“They’re rushing it, Clive. Everyone wants the glory. Too many heroes, not enough patience.”
Clive’s tone was low now, tense. “One spark of calm — that’s all they need. Just one…”
Then came the turnover.
Henderson’s touch went long.
Russia broke.
A long diagonal — Smolov in space.
The Vélodrome gasped in unison.
Clive’s voice cut sharp. “Smolov’s in! England stretched!”
But then — a blur of white.
Tristan.
Covering forty yards in seconds.
A perfect slide, clean, precise, stealing the ball like a thief in the dark.
Lee’s laugh burst through the tension.
“Oh, that’s world class! That’s Tristan again! He’s everywhere!”
Tristan was up before the crowd even finished cheering. He walked with the ball.
Russia hesitated.
Waited.
Then he dropped his shoulder.
Gone with a burst of speed.
Clive’s voice filled with disbelief. “He’s teasing them, Lee! He’s toying with them!”
Three defenders lunged. He cut left, spun right, slipped it through — a perfect reverse.
Dele was through.
Wide open.
Lee half shouted, half laughed. “Ali’s in! He’s done them all!”
Dele didn’t even take a touch. He looked up — saw Kane peeling back — and squared it, perfect weight.
Clive’s voice broke. “Kane…!”
Left foot. Strike.
The net rippled.
83:04.
The Vélodrome exploded.
Clive’s shout was lost in the storm. “It’s there! HARRY KANE! ENGLAND LEAD AGAIN!”
Lee was laughing, almost shouting over him.
“At last, Clive! At last! And who started it? Who else but Tristan Hale again!”
The camera shook from the roar. Flags whipping, beer flying. The England bench emptying — Hodgson pumping his fists, Rooney screaming, Rashford jumping over two chairs.
Kane slid to the corner flag, both knees cutting through the grass, fists raised high. Vardy crashed into him, nearly toppling him. Then came Dele. Then Henderson. Then Tristan — sprinting full tilt, diving into the pile with a roar that carried halfway across France.
“YESSSSSSSS! THAT’S IT!” he shouted, pounding Kane’s chest. “THAT’S HOW WE WIN!”
The English end sang, deafening now, taunting the Russians back:
🎵 “YOU’LL NEVER STOP THE ENGLISH! WE’LL BRING IT HOME TONIGHT!” 🎵
Tristan stood at the edge of the chaos, chest heaving, grin wide, hair matted with sweat.
He pointed at Kane. Then to the badge. Then up — toward the fans.
Clive’s voice cracked as he celebrated.
“And that — right there — is England’s crown jewel, shining brightest when the pressure burns.”
The noise was still shaking the stands, but inside Vasili Berezutski’s head — there was silence.
His lungs burned. His legs felt like timber. But none of that mattered.
He turned to his teammates, hands clapping, voice already rising. “HEY! HEADS UP!”
A few looked over, some still bent over, gasping.
Shirokov doubled over near the edge of the box. Dzagoev had both hands on his knees. Even Akinfeev looked like he wanted the ground to open and swallow him.
But Vasili didn’t care. He refused to lose like this.
He grabbed Denisov by the collar, yanked him upright. “GET UP!”
Then he turned to the rest, barking out each word like a general on his final charge.
“One more push! One more!”
“I don’t care how tired you are. I don’t care if your legs are gone. We die on this pitch before we let them win easy.”
“We got lucky once, we can do it again! A corner, a foul, a mistake — we need one moment! ONE!”
He turned toward the back line, toward the strikers.
“Hold your line. Don’t jump. If you see space, take it. If you get the shot — hit it like your life depends on it. No fear.”
And then softer barely above the roar of the crowd:
“Don’t go home wondering what if.”
They nodded tired but alive. Denisov punched his chest twice. Golovin stood taller.The line re-formed. Red shirts fanned out like a final wave crashing toward the inevitable.
And for one breath — just one — it looked like they might make it.
Tristan had dropped deep. England had settled. They were trying to kill the clock. And for a moment, the ball rolled loose.
Ivanov reached it. Touched it forward. Then squared. Smolov turned.
Vasili held his breath. The pass was there — he saw it. An angle. A channel.
But then — A blur.
White.
Number 22.
Tristan. Not jogging. Not gliding. Exploding.
He pounced on it like a predator, shouldered Smolov off the ball like he was nothing, and turned.
The pitch opened in front of him.
Vasili shouted — “Foul him!” — but it was already too late.
Tristan had space.
The crowd surged to their feet. Everyone knew.
He took one touch. Then another. The arc curved left. He wasn’t slowing down.
“CLOSE HIM!”
But no one could.
30 yards out.
Right foot.
Strike.
It wasn’t just a shot. It was a warhead.
The ball left his foot like it had been fired from a cannon. A blur of white and gold and fury, rising then dipping like it was guided by destiny.
Akinfeev dove. Too slow. Too late.
The net snapped in the 87th minute.
And the Vélodrome exploded.
England 3.
Russia 1.
Game over.
Vasili stood frozen. His mouth didn’t move. His legs refused to chase.
He could only watch as Tristan peeled away, sprinting toward the far corner.
He reached the edge of the pitch. Faced the roaring crowd. Then brought both hands together and pressed them like a pillow beneath his tilted cheek.
A goodnight.
Goodnight to Russia.
Goodnight to doubt.
Goodnight to the game.
Vasili Berezutski dropped to a knee.
The dream was over.
And the monster had tucked it into bed himself.
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