Di María sat on the bench, his expression had turned grim.
He knew it himself—there was no way he'd be getting into this World Cup final.
The coach had put him on the squad list purely as a tactical decoy, meant to make France wary of his pace down the flank and pull their defensive focus elsewhere.
But right now, watching his team trail by a goal, watching his teammates throw everything they had into the attack and still fail to break through France's defence, he wanted nothing more than to stand up, pull on his shirt, walk onto the pitch, and use his speed and dribbling to tear the defence open.
But his body wouldn't let him. All he could do was sit there on the bench, watching helplessly, his heart full of regret.
It was the regret of being unable to give anything to his team, the bitterness of being so close to a World Cup title and only able to watch from the sidelines.
Countless images flashed through his mind.
If only he could get on the field. If only he could pin down France's defence out on the wing. Maybe then the team wouldn't be stuck in this hole.
But there was no "if only." He could only sit there in silence.
His gaze drifted back to the pitch with a little more hope in his eyes now—hope that his teammates could pull off a miracle, hope that Messi could make the team level.
Meanwhile, Argentina still hadn't eased off on the attack.
Messi was pushing further forward, interlacing repeatedly along the edge of France's box, hunting for a chance to create something.
Lavezzi and Enzo Pérez traded runs down the flank.
Higuaín held the highest line, ready to receive any pass that came his way.
In the 30th minute, Argentina launched an attack through the middle. Mascherano got the ball in midfield, saw Messi's run, and tried to slot a short pass to his feet.
But he hit it a touch too soft, and the pass fell short.
Just as Messi stretched to reach it, Kanté who'd been marking him tight the whole game read it, stepped in, and flicked it away with the tip of his boot, feeding it to Pogba beside him.
The instant Pogba took the ball, Rojo rushed him and grabbed a fist of his shirt, trying to stop the pass before it happened.
Pogba twisted his body free, tearing loose from Rojo's grip. And with everything he had, he sent a long ball forward!
Even under that kind of pressure, Pogba's pass was still pinpoint.
The ball found Giroud at the front, dead on target.
Giroud used his big frame to hold the ball up perfectly, chesting it down with his back to goal. Then laid it off for Julien, who was making a run.
Except the pass clearly underestimated Julien's speed. It came in a touch too slow and landed behind him.
Julien checked his run and scrambled back for it, but he was a little too late.
Argentina's midfielder Lucas Biglia raced back and got there first, bringing the ball firmly under control.
Julien didn't give up. He sprinted straight at Biglia, closing him down, trying to force him to make mistake. But Biglia reacted fast—before Julien's press could land, he slipped a pass through to Messi, who'd dropped deep to collect it.
The instant Messi took the ball, his eyes swept across France's back line.
France had just launched a counter of their own, and their shape was stretched forward, leaving an obvious gap at the back.
Messi didn't hesitate for a second.
Thump!
He struck it with a sudden chip over the top, the ball curled in a long arc over France's back four, racing toward the far end of the pitch.
Higuaín, reading it on instinct, exploded into a run the moment it left Messi's foot.
He beat France's offside trap by inches.
He brought the ball down, took one touch forward, and burst clear alone, sprinting straight at France's goal.
HOOOOOO
A roar went up in the stands!
Every Argentine fan in the stadium shot to their feet, the cheering already rose in their throats.
Messi's eyes were locked on Higuaín, brimming with hope.
This was the best chance Argentina had had to level the score since falling behind!
Lloris saw it coming and rushed off his line with everything he had, charging out to close down Higuaín.
Higuaín closed in on the box, and with Lloris coming down on him, he made up his mind and struck. But maybe he rushed it. Maybe the pressure got to him.
The ball missed the target and it sailed high over the bar, straight into the stands!
In an instant, the roar inside the Maracanã was cut off dead.
A gasp swept through the crowd—replaced by a groan of anguish from the Argentine fans.
Higuaín stood frozen, both hands clutching his head, disbelief on his face.
Messi shook his head too, crushed.
That perfect chance was gone, just like that.
Back home in Argentina, the countless fans glued to their televisions felt the same crushing disappointment as the ones in the stadium—some of them were boiling over into fury.
Cursing at the screen!
On Argentina's national broadcast, commentator Diego couldn't hold it in any longer and let out a howl. "No—! My God! How does that not go in!"
Diego's voice shook, it rose nearly to a scream.
"Higuaín! Higuaín!
What a chance that was!
Leo's chip was perfect, beating the offside trap, you were clean through on goal!
It was just you and Lloris—just the two of you out there!
Look at this ball!
Messi's pass was flawless—he saw the gap in France's defence and gave everything to put you through to level this match!
Why did you rush it?
Why couldn't you stay calm?
A side-footed finish to the far corner, even a soft little chip—either one would have gone in!"
After a brief pause, Diego's voice cracked with grief.
"We're down a goal, we needed that goal so badly! Everyone was watching! Do you understand how rare a chance like that is? France is packed it in at the back, and we finally, finally got a one-on-one like that—and it's gone! Just gone!
Higuaín, you have to keep your head!
Messi did everything he possibly could—he fought for that chance for you, and you missed it!
We're behind now, and we don't have much time left!"
The broadcast cut back to the pitch.
Higuaín's slumped figure, hands over his head; Messi's furrowed brow and downcast look; and on the bench, Di María's fists clenched tight—the cameras caught every bit of it in focus.
At that moment, across Argentina, in every street and alley where people stood watching the big screens—some clutched their heads, some sank to a crouch, some couldn't help but howl, "Why? Why!"
Inside the Maracanã, the Argentine section had gone completely silent.
The French fans, though, felt like a mountain had just lifted off their chests—a collective, ragged sigh of relief ran through the crowd.
They'd survived.
Someone patted their own chest without thinking, muttering, "God, I nearly fainted there. I thought that was going in."
Higuaín's breakaway really had scared the French fans.
For that one moment, everyone was sure France's lead was about to be wiped out.
Lucky for them, the luck fell their way.
Back in France, in the streets, in bars and cafés, the fans glued to their screens let out the same sigh of relief.
Fists that had been clenched tight slowly opened. Bodies that had gone stiff began to loosen. Someone raised a glass of beer and took a slow sip, trying to steady a heart that was still hammering.
For that split second, the whole of France had seemed to freeze.
Not until they saw the ball sail over the bar did anyone truly let go—the stone sitting in everyone's chest finally dropped away.
On the pitch, Play went on.
Argentina didn't let the missed chance rattle them—they kept pushing forward with the same intensity.
Messi kept drifting between midfield and the front line, hunting for another opening.
France, meanwhile, held their shape, sitting deep and patient, waiting for the moment to strike again.
Julien stayed tucked in behind Giroud, reading the game and waiting for his chance.
The match ground on steadily. Argentina carved out one or two more shooting chances. But none of them truly troubled Lloris.
Shortly, the clock hit the 34th minute.
Argentina pushed forward down the flank. Lavezzi's cross was cleared decisively by French defender Sakho.
Evra collected the ball in France's own half. He drove forward quickly, shrugging off Enzo Pérez's press, and carried it all the way up to midfield.
Argentina swarmed to close him down, trying to win the ball back and choke off any French counter.
Just as Evra was about to be surrounded, Pogba stepped in as an outlet, and Evra played it to him without hesitation.
Pogba took the ball and, without wasting a second, spotted space on the right and threaded a precise long ball through.
It landed cleanly at Griezmann's feet, who'd made a run into that space on the right.
The instant Griezmann had the ball, he burst forward with it, driving hard.
Argentine defender Rojo scrambled back to cover, but Griezmann's pace left him behind, and suddenly France's counter was live—Argentina's back line was in trouble!
In the middle, Giroud and Julien pushed up together, dragging Argentina's defence out of shape and opening up even more room for Griezmann.
Griezmann drove the ball all the way to the edge of Argentina's box on the right.
Instead of cutting inside, he saw his teammates were already in position through the middle and calmly fired it back as a low pass into the heart of the box.
Giroud's hard run had already dragged Argentine defenders Garay and Demichelis out of position, their attention was fixed on him.
But there was nothing Giroud himself could do with the ball at that angle.
He knew Julien was right behind him, so he let it run—let the ball roll on through, past his own body.
Julien was already set.
The moment the ball reached him; he didn't need a single touch to adjust.
Left foot, first time—a low drive along the turf, straight into Argentina's net!
Romero had no chance at all.
His attention had been dragged away by Giroud too!
Swish!
The net rippled!
2–0!
France had scored again, doubling their lead!
The instant the ball hit the net, Julien couldn't hold back—he spun and sprinted toward the fans in the stands.
Arms thrown wide, that same signature pose, back straight, radiating confidence. The grin on his face was even bigger than after his first goal.
Every camera on the touchline snapped toward him at once, shutters clicking away rapid-fire—not a single lens dared to look away, every angle was desperate not to miss this historic instant.
A goal in a World Cup final—every second of it was worth carving into memory, every frame was worth freezing forever.
Behind him, his teammates caught up. And it was pure delirium again!
Cheering, screaming!
They were up by two!
In football, a two-goal lead is already about as powerful as it gets.
His teammates mobbed him, hauling him around, shaking him, roaring, "Incredible! A brace! You've scored twice!"
Inside the Maracanã, the French section of the stands completely erupted.
BOOM!
BOOM BOOM!!
Every kind of cheer and roar exploded at once, the whole stand at a rolling boil.
At the same moment, commentator Alphonse, voice cracking with excitement, roared into the mic. "GOAL! He's scored again!
My God, Julien!
Julien scores again! A brace! Two goals before halftime! We're up 2–0!
Unbelievable!
This twenty-year-old, on the World Cup final stage, has scored twice before the break—he is making history right now!
We're one step closer to the World Cup trophy!
Is Julien about to break the World Cup final scoring record?!
Everyone, remember this name—Geoff Hurst. The 1966 World Cup final. The Englishman scored three in extra time, a hat-trick, and helped England beat West Germany 4–2 to win their only World Cup title!
Now Julien has a brace before halftime—could he complete a hat-trick too?
Could he break Hurst's record and become the youngest player ever to score a hat-trick in a World Cup final?!
We've still got time to find out…"
And France's celebration—was Argentina's heartbreak.
On the other side of the Maracanã, Argentina was draped in gloom.
From the players on the pitch, to the coaching staff on the bench, to the legends and fans up in the stands—every Argentine face carried the same sombreness.
That's football.
One field, two ends, two completely different worlds of feeling.
The Argentine players couldn't hide their frustration.
Higuaín stood at the edge of the box, brow furrowed, guilt all over him—just minutes ago he'd missed a golden chance to level the score.
And now the team had conceded again.
Lavezzi, Enzo Pérez, and the others let out heavy sighs, trudging back to their positions, waiting for the restart, wondering if there was still any way back.
Every camera swung toward Messi at once, broadcasting his downcast expression clearly to every fan watching around the world.
On the touchline, Sabella could no longer keep his composure—his brow knotted into a hard line.
His pre-match plan had been completely torn apart by France's counters; without Di María out wide, the team couldn't pry open the opposing defence, and mistake after mistake at the back had left them stuck on their heels.
He shouted out onto the pitch, throwing his arms in sharp tactical signals.
Attack!
There was no road back now—attack was the only option left.
Up in the stands, Argentina's legends couldn't hide their dejection either.
Maradona shook his head, again and again, half-imagining lacing up his own boots and running out there himself.
He'd spent his whole life chasing World Cup glory, and watching the next generation fall two goals behind in the final left him feeling more helpless than losing the title himself ever had.
Not far off, Argentine legend Mario Kempes stood with his arms crossed, his face was grim as well.
This was the man who'd written Argentine football onto the world map. And right now he was shaking his head slowly.
As if lamenting the team's rotten luck, and mourning the chances the players hadn't managed to take.
Up in the stands, the Argentine fans had gone quiet too.
Their eyes stared blankly at the pitch, and images couldn't help surfacing in their minds—Brazil, Germany, all the other powerhouses that had fallen to this French side.
Teams that had had their own world-class stars, teams that had walked in with the same hope of lifting the trophy.
None of them, in the end, had been able to hold back France's assault.
And now, was Argentina about to follow the same road to the same ending, in the final of the World Cup?
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