Julien's goal jolted France fully awake.
Especially in midfield, where Valbuena and Matuidi seized complete control. Their intricate passing sequences left the opposition chasing shadows, barely able to get a touch on the ball.
Then there was Kanté's interception game which was relentless and precise, making it nearly impossible for Belarus to advance past the halfway line. The football lived at French feet now, dictated by their rhythm.
Yet despite France's relentless waves of attack, Belarus's response was crystal clear.
Total retreat. The infamous bus parking.
Leaving only Hleb lurking near the midfield line as a token presence, every other player collapsed into a compressed thirty-meter zone in front of their own penalty area.
Inside the box and around the arc, white-shirted defenders packed together like sardines creating a wall of bodies denying space.
France's attacks was pounded to a frustrating halt.
Any ball that reached the final third was immediately drowned in Belarus's sea of bodies.
Giroud tried to hold up play with his back to goal in the box, but instantly two or three defenders swarmed him. His powerful body, normally so effective found no room to operate. More often than not, the ball ricocheted off a defender's leg for a corner.
Julien attempted several runs off the ball, cutting inside and penetrating the box. But the moment he entered dangerous territory, two or three players united on him like magnets. The suffocating marking left him no shooting angle, no space even to strike. Reluctantly, he'd recycle possession back to teammates on the perimeter.
France dominated possession utterly, but it was sterile, only sideways passes circulating around the box's edge unable to penetrate the core. All bark and no bite.
Even their attempts from distance deflected harmlessly off the forest of legs.
The match fell into dullness. France had all the ball but nothing to show for it.
On the touchline, Deschamps stood with furrowed brow, clearly calculating his next adjustment. Perhaps the bright side in this stalemate was simple: no need to worry about conceding again.
Because with this extreme defensive shell, Belarus had essentially abandoned any thought of attacking. They were perfectly content to preserve this 1-1 draw.
The French TF1 commentator's voice carried a trace of exasperation: "This has become problematic. What we're witnessing now is the classic scenario—away side laying siege, home side hunkered down in survival mode.
Belarus's intentions couldn't be clearer. They've sacrificed all attacking ambition, every man's behind the ball, desperate to steal a precious point at home.
Look at this defensive density, Giroud receives the ball and it's just a forest of legs around him.
What we need now is space!
We need someone who can stretch their defensive line, either through individual brilliance or quicker lateral ball circulation.
If we continue grinding like this, we're just bleeding time, playing straight into their hands.
This is precisely when we need a match-winner to step forward! We need Julien De Rocca or Franck Ribéry, players with the quality to conjure something from nothing in tight spaces!
One sharp run, one unexpected shot—that's all it takes to crack this shell!
We need patience, yes, but more importantly we need to accelerate our passing tempo and precision. Keep probing, keep switching play, hunting for that fleeting gap in their armor."
The handful of French supporters in the away section looked equally helpless.
How do you break down a team that's turned into a turtle?
Back in France, fans watching on television vented their frustration online:
"This is killing me! We're camped in their half and still can't break through! They've got eleven men in the box, how are we supposed to score?"
"Stop crossing! Giroud's surrounded, he can't win anything in there!"
"They just want the draw. We can't let them have it!"
"Trust in Julien! He'll find a way!"
"If this finishes 1-1, it'll be absolutely gutting!"
But no matter how desperately the fans craved a goal, Belarus stubbornly held firm through sheer weight of numbers, repelling wave after French wave.
First-half stoppage time: one minute.
It ended quickly.
Peep!
The referee's whistle signaled half-time. Deschamps walked silently back to the dressing room.
The French players showed their dissatisfaction openly. Many replayed that early defensive lapse in their minds, if only they hadn't conceded, maybe everything would be different.
Meanwhile, the home supporters roared their approval. This defensive intensity thrilled them.
However...
Only the Belarus players themselves knew the physical toll of maintaining such concentrated defending. The constant sprinting, covering, blocking—it was unsustainable for ninety minutes.
That was their concern, their challenge as fatigue would come. But, they just had to hold.
The French Dressing Room
The door slammed shut, sealing out the stadium noise.
Deschamps stood before the tactical board, expression severe, eyes scanning his players. His voice was low but carried an edge: "1-1. Are you satisfied with that scoreline?"
Heads shook around the room.
"Neither am I!" Deschamps suddenly raised his voice, palm cracking against the board. "We played forty-five minutes of foolish football! Walked straight into their trap!"
He spun to the board, marker flying across it in rapid strokes.
"Look at them!" He circled Belarus's penalty area. "Ten men! All crammed in here! What do they want? One point! They want to hold us to a draw at home!
And us? What are we doing? Pumping ball after ball into a crowd! Expecting Olivier to head it in with three men on his back? Expecting Julien to swagger it through a forest of legs? That's lazy! That's thoughtless!
Now, listen carefully to what I'm telling you!
Width! I'll say it again—WIDTH! Stretch their defensive line! Stop cramming into the middle!
And rhythm changes! Accelerate your passing, this leisurely sideways tippy-tapping just lets them rest! Sudden vertical balls! Hit the space behind them!"
Deschamps turned his gaze to Julien. "Julien, your positioning, stop trying to force your way into the box. Drop deeper, receive the ball around the penalty arc. If they follow you out, pass. If they don't, you'll have space there to shoot from distance, send through balls, or drive at them. You have options in that zone, use your freedom."
Julien nodded. He hadn't occupied that space in the first half because his teammates had all flocked centrally, clogging the channels. He'd been forced toward the box.
Of course, this wasn't the moment for excuses or explanations.
Deschamps turned to Giroud next. "Olivier, you're not just a target man. When your shot gets blocked, when your layoff gets cleared, I need you competing for second balls like everyone else. That chaos, those rebounds—that's where we might find our breakthrough."
He continued mapping out adjustments, refining details.
Finally, he said: "Remember, nobody's a machine. They will tire. Gaps will appear. What we need is patient circulation and clinical finishing when the moment comes. Don't rush! When the chance arrives, we have to take it!"
He set down the marker, his eyes were burning as he surveyed the room.
"They think packing bodies in the box will steal them a point. I want you to spend the next forty-five minutes showing them the difference between a world-class side and an ordinary one—a gap that numbers alone can't bridge.
We have one objective: leave Minsk with three points, then march proudly toward the Brazil World Cup!!"
Every head nodded in unison.
This was their goal too.
Though they sat top of the group, everyone understood they had to win this. A victory here meant qualification was secured.
Currently, after six matches, France had five wins and one draw, sixteen points in total.
Spain, having played seven matches, also had five wins, one draw, and one loss, the same sixteen points despite playing an extra game.
Because UEFA qualifying Group I contained only five teams, there were just eight matchdays total, unlike the ten-match campaigns in other groups.
So, if France won here against Belarus, with only one match remaining, Spain would have no mathematical possibility of overtaking them.
Even if France lost to Finland in the final match, they'd finish on nineteen points. Spain, even winning their last game, could only reach nineteen and France held the head-to-head advantage, plus a superior goal difference. On equal points, France would advance.
But if France failed to win today whether by draw or defeat—the final matchday would still hold uncertainty.
The pressure would be immense.
So, there was only one option: Win.
When the half-time interval ended, both teams emerged back onto the pitch.
The Dinamo Stadium in Minsk erupted once more into thunderous noise.
Determination etched into faces on both sides.
France couldn't accept a draw. Belarus knew this, which made defending even more imperative.
At that moment, as the broadcast cameras returned to the pitch, the TF1 commentator resumed: "Welcome back to Minsk, ladies and gentlemen. After the break, the decisive second half is about to begin.
We know exactly what Belarus will do—continue what they did in the closing stages of the first half. Ten, maybe eleven men behind the ball, fighting for dear life to preserve this precious point at home.
For France, these forty-five minutes represent a battle we simply must win.
This isn't just about three points today, it's about locking down a ticket straight to the Brazil World Cup.
A draw means uncertainty dragging into the final matchday, enormous pressure and doubt.
Only victory puts our destiny firmly in our hands."
When the cameras panned across the French players, their expressions were grave.
Soon enough, players took their positions in the center circle.
Peep!
The whistle blew.
France kicked off and immediately began circulating the ball in their own half. Within moments, Belarus's tactical intent became glaringly obvious—total retreat once again.
By the time France pushed into midfield, all ten Belarus outfield players had already dropped into their defensive half, constructing two rigid banks of bodies within that familiar thirty-meter zone fronting the penalty area.
Even the exhausted veteran Hleb, breathing heavily, retreated dutifully to the edge of the box, using his experience to read and cut passing lanes.
In this moment, everyone could see it plain as day: Belarus's resolve was absolute.
They'd sacrifice every attacking opportunity to protect this one point.
"Look at this defensive shape," the French commentator said, voice tinged with worry. "Belarus have literally parked a double-decker bus in front of goal. Even Hleb's dropped this deep, they're absolutely determined to shut up shop."
From the touchline, Deschamps absorbed the scene clearly. His hands gestured immediately, signaling his team to execute the halftime instructions.
France began deliberately manipulating the opposition shape through rapid passing combinations.
At 47th minute, Matuidi collected possession in midfield. He surveyed the congested penalty area and chose instead to slide the ball wide right to the overlapping Sagna.
Sagna didn't take it to the byline, instead, he checked back and laid it off to Julien, who'd drifted over in support.
Julien received, shifted onto his favored foot as he cut inside, then from the edge of the area, no hesitation—unleashed.
The ball rocketed toward goal like a cannonball. Julien had struck it with absolute conviction, full enhancement activated.
CLANG!
The shot beat the diving bodies, beat the scrambling goalkeeper but smashed flush against the post with a sickening metallic ring.
The rebound spun back into play and was desperately hacked clear by a shaken Belarus defender. The ball skittered out for a throw-in.
"Oh! The post!" the commentator cried. "Julien's strike had beaten the keeper completely, but it's crashed off the woodwork! The luck just isn't with us tonight!"
Belarus players exhaled in relief, slapping hands, celebrating their escape.
The goalkeeper kissed the post emotionally, as if thanking a guardian angel.
Julien dropped his head briefly, shrugged at his teammates, then jogged back into position.
No goal, but at least they'd executed the tactical adjustment properly.
On the French bench, the entire substitutes' section exploded. Players and coaches simultaneously leapt from their seats, hands on heads, groans of anguish.
In the away section, the small pocket of French supporters went from breathless anticipation to crushing deflation to stunned silence in seconds. Many slumped in their seats, faces buried in hands, unable to process how close they'd come.
But quickly, applause broke out.
Plenty of time remained. There would be more chances.
This strike gave them hope.
The TF1 commentator, recovering from his initial shock, said: "The approach was much clearer that time, Deschamps has clearly made adjustments at the break. We're getting closer. The next goal doesn't feel far away."
Shortly after, France won a corner.
Ribéry delivered the cross. Giroud rose majestically in the box, but sandwiched between two Belarus defenders, his header drifted narrowly wide of the post.
Whoooosh!
The home supporters erupted in relieved celebration, every successful clearance now greeted with thunderous acclaim.
Meanwhile, French fans felt hope swelling with each dangerous moment.
At 53rd minute, Belarus once again demonstrated their stubborn defensive will.
Matuidi intercepted in midfield and surged forward, then sent a pass left to Ribéry on the edge of the area.
Ribéry feinted, sold his marker, then lashed in a cross.
The ball arced toward the six-yard box where Giroud and the opposing center-back both launched themselves.
Crack—a sickening collision, heads clashed, then both men crumpled to the turf.
The Belarus keeper gathered the loose ball comfortably.
The referee waved play on. The home crowd roared again.
But Giroud and the defender had gone head-to-head—medics rushed on, causing another lengthy delay.
Gradually, the clock ticked toward the sixtieth minute.
French players began showing signs of frustration.
Valbuena skied a long-range effort and angrily waved his arms. Ribéry shook his head after misplacing a pass.
The more desperate they became for a goal, the heavier the pressure grew and their performance tonight genuinely wasn't at its sharpest.
Deschamps recognized this immediately.
Time for a change.
67th minute: Deschamps made his first substitution, bringing on Juventus youngster Paul Pogba for Valbuena.
An unmistakable signal to reinforce the attack.
"Pogba's coming on," the commentator said with anticipation. "This young midfielder is renowned for his powerful shooting and creative vision. His introduction could shift the momentum."
Pogba immediately announced his presence.
At 70th minute, he collected the ball in midfield, slalomed past two challenges with elegant close control, then from thirty meters out—boom—unleashed a thunderbolt.
The ball screamed toward the top corner. Goalkeeper Veremko flung himself desperately across goal, his fingertips just managed to tip it over the bar.
Pogba clutched his head in disbelief.
French fans released another gasp—that looked destined for the net.
So close.
From the resulting corner, Giroud flicked on at the near post. The ball looped toward the back stick where Julien, stretching near the byline, hooked it back into the danger zone but a Belarus defender got there first, booting it clear with a panicked hack.
Belarus were buckling under the pressure now, players were visibly wearying.
Hleb could barely run anymore, doubled over after every defensive action, his lungs were burning.
Other players' movements had slowed noticeably. Challenges arrived late. Fouls accumulated.
Finally, at 75th minute, Belarus also made substitutions.
Defensive midfielder Olekhnovich replaced the exhausted Hleb. Simultaneously, winger Plotny came off for center-back Zavnerchak.
Both changes were purely defensive reinforcements.
Manager Kandratsiuk used the stoppage to frantically gesture toward his players.
The message was clear: Hold. Absolutely hold.
Just fifteen more minutes. Survive this and it's over.
Though Belarus couldn't qualify for the next round, this was a matter of pride.
After the changes, Belarus's defensive block became even more compact.
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