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Chapter 289: Russia Part 2
🕑 Added 2025-11-01 03:39:25 +0000 UTCJune 11, 2016 | Stade Vélodrome
The whistle split the air like glass breaking. And just like that, the world roared to life.
Eighty thousand voices collided inside the old concrete walls of the Vélodrome, a sound thick enough to shake the camera rigs. Red flares burned in the Russian end; white-and-blue flags rippled like a storm at the opposite side, where English fans sang with the kind of fury that felt centuries old.
“COME ON ENGLAND!”
“ROSSIYA! ROSSIIYA!”
The two chants smashed together midair, neither side willing to yield an inch.
Russia kicked off, their captain Ignashevich tapping it back to Berezutski before the ball spun wide toward the flank. A cautious start. A slow heartbeat before the fever set in.
From the booth high above the halfway line, Clive Tyldesley’s voice slid through the noise, measured but laced with awe.
“England in their traditional all-white, Russia in that deep crimson. The smell of smoke in the air, the Marseille sun dipping low. what a stage for the start of Euro 2016!”
Lee Dixon chimed in before Clive could breathe, his tone tight with anticipation.
“And this isn’t the England of the old guard, Clive. This is the youngest squad since 1958, fresh faces, fearless legs, and at the heart of it, one man wearing the armband for the first time at a major tournament. Tristan Hale. Twenty years old. The boy who completed football just three weeks ago.”
Clive’s voice rose above the mounting chant from the English end.
“The Crown Jewel of England. It feels like everything’s led to this moment.”
No press from England.
Not yet.
Tristan lingered near the edge of the centre circle, eyes half-lidded, reading the movement like a puzzle he’d already solved once before. He watched as Drinkwater and Henderson held their shape, two gears shifting side to side, never lunging, never overextending.
Behind him, Kane called out — low and steady — “Stay compact!”
Russia sent it wide again.
On the touchline, Denisov pointed for the runner to overlap, but the move was too slow, too telegraphed.
Tristan didn’t move. Not yet.
Dzyuba dropped in deep. A lumbering shadow of a striker, all elbows and brute force. Smalling followed, a half-step closer than he wanted to be.
Tristan saw it.
The pass zipped in at waist height — sharp, direct.
Chest down.
But the second touch… loose.
Henderson didn’t waste a second to tackle.
A clean tackle — not reckless, not wild, but surgical. Dzyuba’s momentum carried him forward, stumbling, as the ball spun free toward Drinkwater’s feet.
The Vélodrome detonated.
A wall of noise rose behind the tackle, English fans on their feet, red-and-white flags shaking in the chaos.
Up near the halfway line, Dele grinned. “There we go, Hendo!”
On the other side, Vardy was already turning, barking for the outlet.
Henderson stood tall, dust on his shin, fist raised once toward the crowd.
“Well timed from Henderson,” said Lee Dixon in the booth. “Didn’t dive in too early, just waited for the big man to fumble the touch.”
From his spot near the top of the arc, Tristan nodded clapped before looking around, gathering where everyone was.
He shifted forward a half-step, scanning for Dele and Kane.
“All right,” he muttered under his breath. “Let’s increase the pressure.”
And just like that, England turned with the gears shifting.
Henderson’s tackle had flipped the switch as England surged.
The backline pushed higher. The midfield pressed tighter. And right in the center of it all, Tristan began to pull the strings like a maestro with fire in his veins.
Near the halfway circle, he received the ball on the half-turn with a feathered touch — one glance up, then the trigger pull.
A pass — no, a missile.
It cut through the Marseille sky like a streak of starlight — fifty yards, end-over-end, bending around two red shirts, kissing the grass just before Kyle Walker at full sprint.
The English fans rose in unison, the sound swelling like a wave.
Walker didn’t break stride. One touch to kill it, another to steady — then a low, venomous cross across the box.
Kane dummied — a perfect feint.
Vardy lunged.
He met it clean — inside the right foot, six yards out — but a Russian defender slid across with a desperate block. The ball clattered off his shin, bounced awkwardly, then was hacked away by Ignashevich as Akinfeev scrambled behind him.
Gasps echoed through the stadium like a single, ruptured breath.
So close.
The camera cut to Vardy, hands on his head, still half on the ground. Kane crouched beside him, mouthing “That was it.”
From the gantry above, Clive Tyldesley’s voice cut through the tension.
“That deserved a finish! What a ball from Tristan Hale — fifty yards on a dime. That’s Beckham’s range. That’s Gerrard’s aggression. That’s Tristan’s signature.”
Lee Dixon let out a sharp exhale before jumping in.
“That pass… it’s absurd. He’s just 21. You can’t teach that kind of whip, that kind of timing. And Walker did everything right — perfect delivery across goal. Vardy nearly snapped the net.”
The camera panned to the England end. Flags were shaking. A kid in a Tristan #22 shirt was screaming into the sky. Grown men with painted faces clutched their heads in disbelief.
“Early signs, Lee,” Clive added. “Very early signs… but you can feel it. England are close.”
“Russia need to wake up,” Dixon warned. “Because if Tristan starts running this show… they’re in for a long night.”
The pressure was building like a storm.
England had their boots on Russia’s throat.
Another wave surged forward — Kane dropping deep to knit the play, Chilwell tearing up the left flank, Vardy cutting between center-backs like a blade through cloth. Every pass drew a roar. Every touch sparked belief.
The Russians were cracking. You could see it in their movements — hurried, tangled, desperate.
One touch too late.
One tackle too wild.
And right in the middle of it all, Tristan conducted the chaos.
He didn’t run. He glided. Every stride looked rehearsed, elegant — yet the defenders chasing him were tripping over their own feet. The ball clung to him like it feared betrayal.
Glide, shift, drag, gone. He slipped past Denisov with a shoulder feint, pirouetted past Neustädter, and scooped a disguised flick over two legs — a pass so audacious Dele nearly gasped when it landed at his boots.
Then came the hit.
A forearm slammed into Tristan’s ribs — cheap, frustrated.
Before he could right himself, a trailing leg swept his shin. He stumbled. Steadied. Then froze as the whistle shrieked across the Vélodrome.
From the commentary gantry, Clive Tyldesley’s voice dropped into stunned silence before flaring again. “Oh no… you don’t do that. Not there. Not to him.”
Beside him, Lee Dixon’s tone was clipped, almost scolding. “That’s twenty-two yards out, Clive. That’s his postcode. That’s the address he sends goals from.”
The second Tristan want down, the England shirts descended like wolves.
Vardy was first, eyes blazing. “Oi! What’s that then?!” he barked, jabbing a finger toward the Russian midfielder. Kane was right behind with the rest of the squad.
Dele was almost spitting. “Every time he gets the ball, they go through him! Sort it out!”
The Russians shrugged, muttered, played innocent. One even nudged Tristan as he walked past. The English end erupted.
BOOOOOOOOO!
It wasn’t just noise — it was fury.
The cameras found Tristan down on one knee, hand pressed to the turf, head bowed.
He exhaled through his nose as he rose. Russia already resorting to this? It was too early for panic fouls. Too early for pride to curdle into spite. He raised his hand to stop before a fight could break out.
Just one.
It was enough.
Vardy stepped back. Kane nodded and turned. Even Dele — chest still heaving — cooled instantly. They listened. Always did.
Clive Tyldesley’s voice dropped to reverence. “And that tells you everything you need to know about this young man.”
Lee Dixon let out a quiet breath. “That’s captaincy, Clive. That’s twenty-one years old, calming down everyone.”
On the sideline, Roy Hodgson watched happily with what he was seeing.
His assistant leaned in. “They’re getting rougher with him.”
“They have no choice,” Roy muttered. “When you can’t stop someone the right way, you foul them. And when even that doesn’t work…” He trailed off, still watching.
Down on the pitch, Tristan placed the ball with surgical care.
Twenty-two yards out. Left of center.
The Russian wall inched nervously forward. Akinfeev’s voice rang over the noise — “FOUR! WALL! LEFT! NO SPACE!” — but it was laced with panic, not authority. His gloves trembled.
In the stands, the England fans sensed it. The sound began to rise again —
🎵 “TRIS-TAN! TRIS-TAN!”
🎵 “ENGLAND! ENGLAND!”
The air vibrated. A storm about to break.
Henderson crouched beside him, voice low. “You alright?”
Tristan didn’t even glance over. “Perfect,” he said.
He took three steps back. Eyes fixed on the top corner. The lights above scorched the pitch now — no sun left, just spotlight. Just stage.
He could feel it in his chest.
The breathless still.
The whole of Europe watching.
Somewhere in northern France — in a quiet players’ lounge at Clairefontaine — the French national team had gathered around a flatscreen, all attention fixed on the Vélodrome broadcast.
Griezmann leaned forward on the sofa, elbows on his knees. “Donne-lui vingt-deux mètres... et c’est fini.” You give him twenty-two yards? It’s over.
Pogba sat back, arms crossed. “They’re about to find out the hard way.”
Even Hugo Lloris, calm and still as ever, gave a slow nod. “You don’t foul Tristan Hale in his favorite range. Not unless you’re desperate. And it’s only the first half — Russia’s already chasing shadows.”
Matuidi tilted his head toward the screen. “Can’t blame them, either. It’s Tristan.”
All eyes turned back to the screen.
On the pitch, the stadium held its breath.
High above, Clive Tyldesley’s voice cut into the stillness.
“You don’t gift Tristan Hale a free kick from there. Not at a major tournament. Not when the world’s watching.”
Lee Dixon’s reply came low and tense. “You’d have better luck giving him a penalty. Twenty-two yards out, just left of center — this is his masterpiece range.”
Tristan took one final breath. His run-up wasn’t fast. Six steps. Controlled. Timed. And then came the strike.
He blasted it. The ball curled off his laces with a whip so clean it sang — rising just enough to clear the wall, then dipping with the weight of gravity and perfection fused together.
Akinfeev leapt.
Too late.
The ball kissed the underside of the bar and snapped into the top corner like a shot from the heavens.
GOAL.
The Vélodrome erupted.
In the French camp, no one looked surprised.
Pogba just laughed. “Told you.”
Griezmann stood, shaking his head in admiration. “Yeah. Where’s Kante by the way, I know he didn’t want to miss this match.”
Back in the stadium, detonation.
Flags flew like sails caught in a hurricane.
The England end turned into a volcano of limbs — bodies leaping, voices breaking, red-and-white flares igniting like fireworks beneath the night sky.
“TRIS-TAN! TRIS-TAN! TRIS-TAN!”
The chant shook the Vélodrome to its core.
In the dugout, Roy Hodgson — usually so composed — punched the air with both fists and shouted something lost in the chaos. His assistants swarmed him, clapping shoulders, screaming into each other’s faces.
The camera panned across it all — chaos in every corner of the stadium, flares glowing, fans crying, flags whipping in the Marseille wind.
And in the gantry, Clive Tyldesley’s voice soared above the bedlam. “Oh my word — TRISTAN HALE! That’s not just a goal — that’s a statement. That is England’s captain saying: I’m here. I’m ready. Come stop me.”
Lee Dixon could barely keep his voice steady.
“Twenty-one years old. A wall, a keeper, a nation watching — and he picks the top corner like he’s marking a calendar date. You give him that space, that angle — that’s murder in daylight.”\
On the pitch, Tristan turned and broke into a run — straight for the corner flag, arms lifted high, palms wide open to the sky.
The England end erupted. Fans poured forward, climbing railings, scarves twirling above heads. Red-and-white smoke cannons went off behind the net as if the goal had triggered fireworks.
Before Tristan could even stop, the avalanche arrived.
Kane was the first to reach him, leaping onto his back like a kid on a playground. Vardy slid in on one knee, arms raised, screaming so loud his voice cracked.
Dele tackled him from the side, shouting “ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!” over and over.
Walker, Henderson, Chilwell — all of them mobbed him, arms wrapped around their captain as the pile of bodies grew.
On the sidelines, Roy Hodgson actually jumped — both arms in the air, a grin tearing through his face as he turned to punch the air in celebration. Behind him, even the substitutes were sprinting to the touchline, shirts flapping, screaming with joy.
Up in the royal box, Barbara was screaming, both hands clutching her chest like her heart had just exploded. Sophia was jumping next to her, hugging Biscuit and waving Tristan’s shirt in the air.
Ling just roared, “YES, LAD! YESSSSS!”
Across the stadium, the noise was unholy.
Fans stomped. Drums pounded. Voices cracked from shouting the same name again and again.
“TRIS-TAN! TRIS-TAN! TRIS-TAN!”
In that moment — under floodlights, arms raised, teammates clinging to him like anchors — Tristan Hale wasn’t just England’s captain.
He was England itself.
And the tournament had truly begun.
Back on the pitch, Russia restarted play to a storm of boos.
The ball rolled, but their manager, Leonid Slutsky, barely watched. He was pacing the edge of the technical area like a man on the brink, red-faced — not from the Marseille sun, but from sheer fury.
He spun and snapped at his assistant. “Zamena!” Substitution. Now.
Two figures peeled off the bench — Roman Shirokov and Oleg Ivanov. No warm-up jog, no nods of encouragement. Just stripped jackets, clenched jaws, and instructions barked over the roar.
Fresh legs. Not for creativity. For containment.
The fourth official held up the board. Changes confirmed. Desperation setting in.
The camera caught Slutsky clawing at his collar, sweat dotting his temple as he pointed toward the far side. “If we sit any deeper, we’ll be back in the dressing room down two-nil. Get out! Press them! Don’t let Hale breathe!”
On the field, Russia tried to rally.
Dzagoev drifted wide, cutting inside for a glimpse of space. Shirokov ghosted between lines, snapping a quick shot from twenty-five yards — but it sailed into the third tier. A polite clap from the Russian section. Nothing more.
The English end roared with laughter.
Up in the gantry, Clive Tyldesley filled the silence. “Bit of a reset here from Russia… trying to staunch the bleeding. But it still feels like they’re walking a tightrope.”
“They’re hanging on,” said Lee Dixon. “And you can tell they know it. Every pass feels nervous. Every touch, rushed. They’re terrified to go in at the break two down.”
But they didn’t.
Ten tense minutes later, the referee brought his whistle to his lips and blew.
Halftime.
England 1. Russia 0.
The players trickled off — some jogging, some trudging. England walked off with heads held high. Russia, with shoulders slumped.
Cameras followed Tristan as he reached the tunnel, flanked by Kane and Henderson. He didn’t say a word.
The tournament had its opening goal. Its opening captain. Its opening warning shot.
And now it had a halftime reckoning.
.
Tomorrow’s chapter is around 4k as I decided to break this chapter into 2 as this chapter is 3k.
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