Hitzfeld closed his eyes for a moment and drew a deep breath.
He was torn and helpless.
In all his years on the touchline, through countless hard-fought battles, he had never faced a dilemma quite like this one. Every choice now bore on Switzerland's fate at this World Cup.
But reality wasn't giving him much time to think.
France's celebration was brief.
The referee's whistle sounded again, and play resumed.
Hitzfeld's eyes snapped open, a new resolve in them. He strode to the touchline and shouted instructions at his players on the pitch.
"Push up. Press higher."
Two goals down—there was still hope. He wasn't ready to give up so easily.
Following Hitzfeld's signal, Switzerland pushed forward, trying to raise a counterattack.
But barely three minutes later, the situation on the pitch shifted again.
Julien received a pass from Pogba in the final third, shook off his marker with a quick feint, and drove hard toward the Swiss penalty area.
His run frequency was blistering.
Combined with his slick footwork, the Swiss defenders simply couldn't handle him—he was carving a path straight through the middle.
Von Bergen saw the danger and threw everything into closing him down, sticking tight to Julien.
Two quick changes of direction from Julien left Von Bergen dizzy and off balance. Just as Julien was about to burst past him, Von Bergen, desperate, grabbed a fistful of his shirt and stuck out a leg to try to poke the ball away.
Instead, he caught Julien square on the shin.
"Ahh!"
Julien cried out and went down inside the box.
Peep!
The referee's whistle blew instantly. He hurried into the box and pointed straight at the penalty spot—penalty!
The French fans in the stadium erupted into an even louder roar: "Penalty! Penalty!"
The Swiss players swarmed the referee in protest.
Some even claimed Julien had dived.
But the referee had clearly seen it closely—this was Von Bergen losing his position and committing a reckless foul, nothing more.
There was no room for the call to change.
At the same time, the referee even booked a Swiss assistant coach on the touchline for hurling abusive words.
Watching all this, Hitzfeld's frown deepened.
This penalty left him feeling something close to despair.
He had only just steeled himself to fight back, and now the other side had been handed a chance like this.
This penalty had all but shattered any hope of a Swiss comeback. Down 2–0 and now facing a penalty on top of it, the situation had spun completely out of control.
He slowly lowered his head and gave it a small shake. The battle raging in his mind a moment ago now had its answer.
Reality had left them no choice.
Julien slowly picked himself up off the ground, brushed the grass from his kit, and slapped hands with his teammates.
Then—Griezmann handed him the ball.
Julien carried it forward at a slow pace, bent down, and gently set it on the penalty spot.
He adjusted its angle slightly.
In the stands, the French fans were already on their feet, holding their breath, hands clasped together.
Every eye was locked on Julien.
Lips were moving silently: score it, score it.
Tricolour flags rippled quietly across the stands, waiting to witness a moment for the history books.
Fans from other countries were pulling out their phones too, aiming them at the centre of the pitch, eager to capture what might become a moment for the World Cup's record books.
If Julien scored, it would be another hat-trick—and no one in history had ever scored a hat-trick in two consecutive matches at the same World Cup.
Peep!!
The referee's whistle sounded, signalling that the kick could be taken.
Julien slowly backed away a few steps, opening up distance from the spot.
He lifted his head, eyes fixed straight on the goal, and drew a deep breath, settling his rhythm.
Then he exploded forward—and unleashed a rocket of a shot!
No finesse, no slow run-up—just pure power.
The ball screamed toward the goal, blazing straight for the underside of the crossbar.
Benaglio dove to his right, but he couldn't get anywhere near it. The ball slammed into the net, and the netting shook violently.
Whoosh!
It's in!
3–0!
Hat-trick! Julien has his hat-trick!
The silence shattered in an instant. An ear-splitting roar crashed like thunder through Arena Fonte Nova.
The French fans lost themselves completely, waving flags, hoisting Julien's number 10 jersey high, chanting in one voice: "Julien! Julien!!"
The chant pierced the stadium's roof and echoed on and on.
Everyone let their joy pour out unrestrained. The entire French fan section became one agitating sea of celebration.
Julien, having scored, could no longer hold back his own emotion.
He threw his arms wide and sprinted toward the touchline, leaping high beneath the stands, pumping his fists and roaring at the fans.
A hat-trick!
Two straight hat-tricks at the World Cup!
Every camera in the stadium, every lens, was on him now.
Whether it was the broadcast cameras on the touchline or the fans' phones in the stands, every one of them tracked his every move, capturing the moment the young captain ascended to legend.
Every expression on his face, every gesture he made, would be etched into the memory of billions of fans.
It would become one of the most dazzling images of this entire World Cup.
No one could have imagined that Julien De Rocca would score hat-tricks in two consecutive World Cup matches.
In just a match and a half, he had already struck six goals, running away with the World Cup's top scorer race, leaving every other contender far behind.
In this moment, no one could deny it any longer—Julien was, without question, the single most dominant attacking player at this World Cup.
His teammates came sprinting over, mobbing him, swallowing him up in the celebration.
The Swiss players, meanwhile, stood rooted to the spot, heads down, utterly helpless. The 3–0 scoreline had basically pushed them to the brink.
Not just anyone can come back from three goals down at halftime.
Alphonse was shouting himself to hoarse too: "Julien! Julien again! The penalty is in! 3–0! A hat-trick!
He's got his hat-trick!
My God, I'll say it—this is one of the most stunning moments in World Cup history! Two matches in a row! Julien has scored hat-tricks in two consecutive World Cup matches!
The first man in history to do it!
Julien has become the first player in World Cup history to score hat-tricks in two consecutive matches!
Look back across the whole history of the World Cup—there have been legends who scored four in a single match, heroes who settled a game with one decisive strike—but never, not once, has any player produced hat-tricks in two straight World Cup matches. Julien has done it!
He has made history!"
Alphonse's voice slowed slightly, though it still carried an excitement he couldn't shake. "We just witnessed history being born!
I don't even know what word to use for him anymore. Genius? Legend? Neither one is enough!
He is the one and only Julien De Rocca, the most brilliant talent in World Cup history!
Look at him!
Look at this boy who came out of Fontenay-sous-Bois, on the outskirts of Paris!
No player has ever kept up such terrifying efficiency on the World Cup stage—no player has ever shown such unanswerable attacking firepower in back-to-back matches!
Julien is the single strongest attacking player at this World Cup—no debate, no argument!
He is showing the entire world, through pure ability, what a true elite striker looks like, what a truly historic performance looks like!
Look back through World Cup history—so many legendary strikers have fallen short, so many extremely gifted players never left behind a legacy for the ages.
And Julien—a boy not even twenty years old—needed only two matches to do what no one before him ever had!
Tonight, Arena Fonte Nova is boiling over for Julien.
Tonight, fans across the entire world are cheering his name!
He is the pride of France, the pride of football itself, and the brightest star in the entire history of the World Cup!
Julien's name will be carved into the World Cup's history forever, never to fade!
I'll say it outright: at this World Cup, Julien will be the man everyone is watching. His legend is only just beginning. Two straight hat-tricks are merely the starting point—in the form he's in right now, he is fully capable of chasing down the World Cup's single-tournament scoring record, of carrying France steadily toward the Jules Rimet Trophy, and of becoming, in his own right, one of the greatest players in World Cup history!"
Alphonse's voice had gone hoarse from shouting.
He was simply too worked up to care.
And yet—one man's joy is never another's.
That penalty had thrown all of France into euphoria and had also become the final straw that broke Switzerland completely.
The old coach Hitzfeld had his final answer now.
Give up on contesting first place in the group with France. Fight for the next match instead, and lock down second place.
Even if that meant facing Argentina after qualifying, there was still a sliver of a chance.
A comeback in this match was, by now, almost impossible.
France was simply too ferocious.
Hitzfeld's brow unknotted. A fresh resolve settled into his eyes as he strode to the touchline, shouting instructions at his players, his hands carving out the signal for a full defensive lockdown.
Every player was to drop back, abandon any thought of attacking, and throw everything into building a compact defensive wall.
The Swiss players were reluctant, but they understood the outcome was already sealed.
After a short time, play resumed, and the shape of the match shifted once more.
Switzerland gave up on attacking entirely.
Every player pulled back into their own half.
Seeing Switzerland fully committed to a defensive shell, Deschamps signalled from the sideline for his players to ease off the pace, no need to force the issue.
After all, a 3–0 lead was more than comfortable enough, and the team had essentially already secured first place in the group.
There was no need to burn through the players' energy needlessly and risk an injury that could affect the matches ahead.
The French players understood at once and gradually eased their attacking tempo.
They settled instead into steady, patient control of possession.
Pogba took the ball in midfield with total composure, slowly trading passes with Kanté and Griezmann, patiently probing for gaps in the Swiss defence.
Julien dropped back somewhat, no longer pushing forward at every opportunity. Instead, he linked up with teammates in midfield, occasionally threading a through-ball to test the limits of the Swiss defence, but no longer forcing his way through—there was no need to spend himself needlessly.
Giroud held the line up front, occupying the Swiss centre-backs and opening up passing lanes for his teammates.
France's attack had lost the pressing, high-intensity counterattacking edge of the first half.
The tempo dropped in an instant.
In the meantime, France still managed a few threatening moves.
Griezmann received a pass from Pogba at the edge of the box and let fly with a long-range strike; a Swiss defender threw himself in the way and hacked it clear behind for a corner.
Julien took a lay-off from Giroud and tried to break into the box, but two Swiss defenders clamped down on him. He used the attention he'd drawn to lay the ball off into the middle instead.
Giroud had another go at it, but the shot flew wide.
But France didn't let it rattle them. They kept their composed rhythm, patiently running down the clock, giving Switzerland nothing to counter with.
On the touchline—Hitzfeld stood with his arms crossed, his mind already turning to the matches ahead.
If they could beat Honduras in the final group match, there was still a chance to advance as runner-up.
And going up against Argentina after that—well, it wasn't necessarily a lost cause.
It was the only path left open to Switzerland.
Up in the stands, the French fans watched the pace of the match slow, but there wasn't the faintest hint of it growing dull—if anything, they kept right on chanting, cheering with undiminished fervour.
The minutes ticked past, one by one.
The two sides settled into a standoff.
When first-half stoppage time finally ran out—
Peep!
the referee's whistle marked the end of the first half. The score stood frozen at 3–0.
On the strength of Julien's hat-trick, France held the match firmly in their grip.
The Swiss players let out a collective breath of relief, trudging back to the locker room, with exhaustion across every face.
The French players, by contrast, wore broad smiles.
For these young players, most of them at their first World Cup, the tournament no longer seemed quite so mysterious.
Everyone always said it was brutally hard.
But right now, it almost felt like they were playing on easy mode??
In fact, it was simply that France had drawn a soft group.
And so—in the locker room, Deschamps watched his players riding high, and the smile on his own face thinned a little.
He walked to the centre of the room, his gaze swept slowly over every player, and clapped his hands. The locker room, noisy a moment before, fell silent at once.
"I know we're 3–0 up at halftime. Julien just scored his second straight hat-trick, and every one of you played well." Deschamps kept his tone level, sparing with the praise. "But I have to remind you—don't let this win go to your heads. We haven't faced a real test yet. This isn't the time to be proud of ourselves."
He spoke slowly, word by word: "Switzerland is playing a purely defensive game by choice. That doesn't mean we've become unbeatable.
The road through this World Cup is long. In the knockout rounds, we could run into Germany, Argentina, Brazil—top-tier teams. This little win right now doesn't mean a thing.
You need to calm yourselves down, put away the restlessness, and treat every single match as a hard-fought battle. Not one ounce of slack.
In the second half, we keep the same rhythm. No rushing the attack, and above all, no showing off for the sake of it.
I'm not asking you to run up the score any further. The only thing I want is for every one of you to protect yourself and stay away from injury.
Every player in this squad right now is core to this team. If any one of you gets hurt, it could derail our entire run through the knockout stage. That's a price we cannot afford to pay."
The players nodded.
Deschamps gave a small nod of his own. He knew these young players' temperaments all too well—prodigiously gifted, brimming with drive, but the moment they took a lead, they were liable to get carried away, too eager to show off, and that was exactly when mistakes happened, sometimes even injuries.
With a group of young lads like this, you couldn't just keep piling on the praise. They needed to be reined in a little.
A splash of cold water, to bring them back down to earth.
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