BOOM!
BOOM-BOOM!!
As the whistle fell, the roar of the Maracanã erupted instantly into the sky.
France kicked off, but made no attempt to push forward.
Argentina didn't press immediately either.
As the final, both sides were being unusually cautious—neither wanted a single mistake to ruin what had taken them this far.
In the first two minutes there was no threatening pass to speak of. The whole stretch was cautious probing, both sides were stringing passes together to feel out the other's tactical setup.
France stayed in their 4-3-3, Pogba anchoring the tempo from midfield, favouring short passes to keep hold of possession.
Argentina, meanwhile, sat in their defensive 4-2-3-1, Mascherano and Biglia were forming a screen in midfield. Messi dropped strikingly deep, linking play in midfield rather than pushing forward early.
The two sides traded possession back and forth, but neither committed to an attack.
The whole thing looked restrained.
Every pass was the safe option—nobody wanted to hand the other side an opening through a mistake.
Then, in the second minute of the match—the first ripple finally broke the surface.
It started with an Argentine passing error. Cabaye stepped in and cut it out, then quickly slid the ball wide to Julien on the left.
The instant it reached him, Julien didn't hesitate.
He exploded forward, and on raw acceleration alone tore straight through Zabaleta's coverage at right-back!
Then he angled his body low, weight forward and two sharp changes of direction to cut inside—he ripped the gap open by force.
The serene state of the match broke apart in an instant, a jolt the Argentine back line hadn't seen coming.
Argentina's defenders reacted at once.
They rushed to cover. Just as Julien looked set to burst into the box, Biglia leaned into him from the side and boxed him out, and Julien lost his footing and went down hard.
The ball ran loose to Mascherano, who cleared it.
Julien pushed himself up off the ground and waved toward the referee, appealing—Biglia's foul had been that obvious, and it wasn't getting called?
But the referee only gave him a flat glance and made no call, waving for play to continue.
Julien shook his head, resigned, and didn't press the point.
He knew arguing further would only waste time. He reset himself and jogged back to track his man.
The no-call didn't rattle him in the slightest.
In the blink of an eye, Argentina broke forward.
Messi picked up the ball in a deep midfield position. He didn't try to carry it forward straight away—instead he shielded it, settled the tempo, and read the pitch, looking for a crack in France's shape.
At that moment, Julien sprinted back from the left to track him, closing fast to help his teammates defend.
Messi felt the pressure, dropped his shoulder in a light touch left, then a push right and with one clean turn slipped past Cabaye, his primary marker.
Seeing this, Julien quickened his pace at once, pressing close, his body brushing right up against Messi's, trying to choke off his room to dribble. But Messi's rhythm on the ball kept shifting, his feet was extremely quick.
Julien nearly lost him—his balance shifted for a split second.
Messi was almost past him clean. But Julien's reactions were fast.
He committed to a sliding tackle, trying to take man and ball together, but he was half a moment late—he only caught Messi's shin, never the ball.
The referee's whistle went instantly, a foul on Julien.
A free kick for Argentina, just this side of the halfway line.
Julien slowly got to his feet and spread his hands—he didnot complaint in it. This one had been undeniable.
As a fellow attacking wide man himself, he understood exactly how hard Messi was to defend.
There was no stopping him in that position without giving committing a foul.
Besides—his own defensive instincts weren't as sharp as some of his teammates'; he'd only dropped back to lend a hand.
Still, on the touchline, Deschamps was not happy with what he'd just seen.
He shouted instantly in Julien's direction, gesturing along with it.
Close enough to hear him clearly, Julien caught both the voice and the gesture—Deschamps pressed both hands downward, then pointed at himself.
Julien nodded. He understood what Deschamps meant.
Don't overcommit to defence, mind your energy.
Deschamps had told him this himself before the match, one-on-one.
"This final—play it like it's going to run the full hundred and twenty minutes. Manage your energy properly. Don't come out too hot early. Save something in the tank, so you can handle the intensity later."¹
Julien took a deep breath, settled his rhythm, and returned to his position.
He knew it too—he needed to conserve his energy. He couldn't afford to have nothing left in his legs when the team needed him most, at the end.
So, Julien had it clear in his mind: hold something back. And in those brief three minutes, he and Messi had already had their first direct clash of this World Cup final.
After that, the pace of the match settled back slow. But as the seconds and minutes wore on, both sides gradually eased into the rhythm of a final, and the early caution began to thin. They started to take chances, and threatening passes came more often.
Gaps began to open between the two lineups!
The roar of the Maracanã grew more frequent too.
Argentina's attack ran entirely through Messi—that was the core logic of everything they did going forward.
With France defending against him specifically, Messi still played deep, but he kept finding ways to become the engine of his team's attack through sheer sharpness of eye.
In the 7th minute, Messi took the ball in midfield and didn't rush a pass. Instead, he strung together several touches, shook off Kanté's close marking, then threaded a precise diagonal ball to Lavezzi on the right.
Lavezzi surged forward, trying to get past Evra, France's left-back.
But Evra reacted quickly, got into position in time, and knocked the ball out for a corner—Argentina's first of the match.
The corner came in.
Higuaín rose high in the box and met it with his head, but the ball sailed over, straight up into the stands.
CRASH!
The Argentine fans in the stadium erupted in a wave of anguished cheering.
No goal, but it had shown everyone what Argentina's attack was capable of.
The commentator also agreed. "That corner was placed almost perfectly. Higuaín's header missed by a edge. Argentina are starting to find their rhythm in attack."
In the 8th minute, Messi showed off his class as a world-class number ten once again.
He picked the ball up deep in midfield, and facing a double-team from Pogba and Cabaye, shifted directions with ease—left foot dragging it, right foot pushing it on, one drop of the shoulder and slipped past both of them.
Then came a through ball that sliced clean through France's back line.
It found Higuaín, breaking in behind.
Higuaín took a touch, turned half his body, and shot without hesitation!
But maybe he hadn't quite found his touch for the day.
The shot never troubled the target.
The ball flew wide of the byline, another chance slipped away.
This time, the Argentine fans in the stadium roared, their cheers shaking the ground—Messi's dribbling, his pass, Higuaín's run—it had come together as close to a perfect move as you'd ever see.
No goal, but it had put France's back line under enormous pressure.
Julien watched Messi's display, a shade more grave in his eyes.
But he also knew Argentina had an obvious weakness for all their attacking sharpness without Di María's runs down the flank, their attack was bunched almost entirely through the middle, and that made it hard to truly break through France's solid back line.
Messi alone wasn't going to be enough to tear France's defence open.
Sure enough, in the minutes that followed, Argentina kept launching attacks through Messi—sometimes a solo run and a shot from distance, sometimes linking up teammates to create a chance but they still couldn't break France's defence.
In the 9th minute, Messi took the ball at the edge of the box, shook off his marker, and fired from distance. The shot had real power behind it, but Lloris held it firmly.
Lloris punted it long right away to launch a quick counter.
On France's side, though they'd started to loosen up going forward too, they hadn't managed to create anything effective yet.
In the 10th minute, Julien received a pass from Pogba and drove down the left. Facing Zabaleta, he didn't force the issue—instead he sent it inside. Griezmann took it and tried to turn and shoot, but Mascherano got there in time to cut it out. The ball was won back, and France's attack came to nothing once again.
"France's attack still looks a bit rushed. Julien's been patient enough, but the front three haven't quite clicked yet. Argentina, meanwhile, have already put France's goal under threat several times off Messi's individual quality alone,"
Alphonse said, reading the match as it unfolded. "But without Di María, Argentina's flank play is clearly toothless—it's hard for them to truly break France's back line open, and that's their biggest problem right now."
The match reached the 12th minute.
Messi picked the ball up again in midfield and drove forward.
His individual quality was extraordinary!
He went past Kanté, and then Cabaye, in quick succession through the middle.
He broke clear to the edge of France's box.
Varane rushed across to close him down, but Messi's feints on the ball had him stretched thin just to keep pace.
And then, Messi's run of horizontal touches at the edge of the box, that stop-start feint, sent Varane the wrong way completely!
Varane stuck out a leg, trying to poke the ball away.
Instead, he planted it right down on Messi's instep.
Messi went down in pain.
TWEET!
The referee's whistle went instantly, a foul, and a free kick for Argentina right at the edge of the box.
The spot was perfect, almost exactly where Messi liked to shoot from most.
A wave of jeers rang out—the Argentine fans in the stadium erupted at once, jeering, some of them even shouting that it should have been a card!
At the same time they rose to their feet, chanting Messi's name, hoping he could break the deadlock with this free kick.
Compared to the frenzy of the Argentine fans, the French fans stayed more composed.
Nowhere near as wild.
Alphonse's voice came back, with a clear edge of tension in it now.
"This is a superb opportunity! Not far from goal, and a great angle too—exactly the spot Messi loves best. Barring a surprise, Messi will be the one to take this free kick, and for France's defence, that is an enormous test."
With his teammates helping him up, Messi rose to his feet.
Both sides began setting up.
Messi exchanged a few words with a teammate, then walked over to the spot.
His eyes were focused on France's goal.
France scrambled a wall into place. Lloris stood on his line, constantly shifting his footing.
The air over the Maracanã seemed to freeze cold.
Every eye in the stadium was fixed on that spot at the edge of the box.
The Argentine fans held their breath, murmuring "goal" under their lips.
The French fans, meanwhile, pressed their palms together, praying the shot would miss.
TWEET!
The referee blew the whistle.
Messi drew a deep breath, took a quick run-up, and struck it hard!
The ball curled over the wall, straight for the top right corner—the death spot.
That corner was the hardest spot on the goal for Lloris to reach.
Lloris threw everything into the leap, stretching his body as far as it would go, but he was still a second too slow to get a hand to it.
Seeing the ball headed there, the roar building in Argentine throats was about to break loose.
CLANG!
But the ball crashed hard into the crossbar.
It bounced back out into the box—no goal.
Kanté cleared it with a big boot out past the touchline near midfield.
CRASH!
The Argentine fans in the stadium gasped simultaneously, the groan of it was echoing around the ground with ands on heads, and faces full of disbelief.
Up in the stands, Maradona had tensed up completely clamped his hands to his cheeks, his mouth was hanging open with disbelief all over his face.
He was muttering something under his breath—it looked like "That didn't go in?!"
On the touchline, Deschamps' body, straight a second before, went rigid all at once, his hands were clenching without him meaning to.
For that one instant, his heart had seemed to stop—a cold sweat broke out across his back.
Only when he saw the ball strike the bar and bounce clear did he let out a slow breath.
He wiped at his forehead without thinking.
He knew exactly how dangerous Messi's free kicks were—that shot had missed by a hair, and France would have been on the back foot.
Alphonse shouted, "My god, that was close!
The curve on that free kick from Messi was close to perfect, the angle and the power both just right. It missed the target by the smallest of margins. France have really dodged one there!
That's what Messi's quality looks like. That free kick was close to unstoppable, and Lloris did everything he possibly could.
All you can say is—the luck fell France's way this time."
The broadcast replayed the free kick again and again—Messi setting the ball, the run-up, the strike, the curl of the ball's path, the instant it hit the bar, every detail was rendered in crisp clarity.
Each replay stretched the Argentine fans' anguish a little further, and deepened the French fans' relief by the same amount.
After that, the camera cut to a close-up of Messi, a trace of regret was on his face, before he reached a hand out toward his teammates to say he hadn't struck it well.
Alphonse's commentary carried on: "Messi, twenty-seven years old, is at the peak of his career, and we've all seen what he's capable of. That free kick alone has already put France on notice. Now France have to answer. They can't keep sitting back and defending—someone has to step up and break this deadlock, the way Messi just did, and carry the team's attack forward."
The moment he said it, the broadcast camera cut to a close-up of Julien.
The meaning was obvious.
On the pitch, the match went on!
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