Chapter 202: [202] "Bizarre start to a match"
Idriss Konaté stood over the match ball in the center circle. The Ivorian striker didn’t look at the opposition or bother checking the positioning of the wingers.
He tapped the ball backward with the sole of his right boot, sending it rolling at a moderate pace into the Valois midfield.
𝘧𝘳𝘦ℯ𝓌𝘦𝒷𝘯𝑜𝑣𝘦𝓁.𝒸𝘰𝓂
The exact second the ball left his cleats, Idriss spun and broke into a sprint straight toward the Olympique Nantaise penalty area.
The ball reached Hugo Blanc.
Standard tactical procedure for SC Valois dictated a rapid circulation of possession right from the kickoff. The receiving midfielder was supposed to play a one-touch pass to Klaus Becker or Bense Baini to establish rhythm, draw the opposition press, and map the early defensive shape.
Hugo did not play a one-touch pass.
The youngster trapped the ball under his right foot. He stopped completely.
The stadium’s noise seemed to falter, a ripple of confusion passing through the stands. Hugo took a single step forward, pushing the ball inches ahead of him. Then he took another.
He was walking.
In the opening seconds of a crucial Ligue Alpha fixture against a desperate, relegation-threatened side, the SC Valois playmaker was casually strolling through the center circle with the ball at his feet, his posture relaxed, his eyes scanning the pitch with a lack of urgency.
Up in the executive suite, Luc Beaumont stood slightly and pressed his hands against the glass. He shifted his weight onto his good leg, ignoring the crutch leaning against the armchair beside him.
"What is he doing?" Valérie Laurent asked. She stood beside Luc, her arms crossed over her charcoal blazer, her eyes narrowing at the bizarre lack of pace on the grass below. "Is he trying to provoke them? Or trying to provoke me. Why isn’t he passing?"
Luc didn’t answer immediately, he wasn’t sure he even had the answer to that. His mind was racing, trying to overlay Hugo’s current movement against the play they ran in training. This wasn’t a drill. It wasn’t a standard opening sequence.
"Hmm," Luc finally said, his voice low, his eyes locked on the teenager. "Look at Nantaise. They don’t know whether to press or hold their shape. I think he’s breaking their trigger by refusing to play at match speed."
Down on the touchline, Coach Henri had taken two steps out of his technical area. The manager’s hands were out of his coat pockets. He wasn’t yelling, but his jaw indicated he was just as caught off guard by the walking pace as the rest of the stadium.
The Nantaise midfield line hesitated. They had spent the entire week drilling defensive shifts designed to counter rapid, one-touch passing. They were prepared to chase the ball. They were not prepared for the ball carrier to simply walk at them.
The hesitation lasted for like five seconds.
A Nantaise central midfielder, a veteran fighting to keep his club in the top flight, snapped. The disrespect of the slow approach overrode his tactical discipline. He broke ranks. He abandoned his slot in the block and initiated a furious sprint at Hugo, fully intending to easily shoulder barge the teenager and strip the ball.
Hugo didn’t speed up still. He didn’t alter his walking pace at all either.
He watched the midfielder close the distance. Ten yards. Five yards. Two yards.
The Nantaise player lunged in, shifting his momentum heavily to secure the dispossession.
Surprisingly, no croqueta or a flashy elastico. Operating with clinical minimalism, Hugo simply tapped the ball forward with the inside of his left boot.
The ball rolled smoothly, lacking any spin, passing precisely through the wide gap between the midfielder’s planted left leg and his sweeping right leg.
A flawless, skill-less nutmeg.
Hugo continued his walking stride, stepping casually around the sprawling, off-balance midfielder, collecting the ball on the other side as the Nantaise player stumbled forward into empty space.
The home crowd let out a massive, collective gasp, the disrespect of the move registering immediately.
But Hugo wasn’t finished. The moment he collected the ball on the other side of the broken press, the walking stopped. The casual demeanor vanished instantly.
He dropped his hips, leaned his weight over the ball, and launched a sweeping, seventy-yard diagonal pass into the sky.
Luc’s eyes snapped away from the midfield, tracking the flight of the ball out toward the left flank.
Dário Ferrão had not been standing still. The Portuguese winger had initiated his sprint the exact second Idriss tapped the kickoff backward. It wasn’t a reactionary run. It was a pre-meditated, highly coordinated strike. While the entire stadium and the Nantaise defense were mesmerized by Hugo’s bizarre walking pace, Dário had been eating up the turf on the blindside.
The long ball dropped perfectly over the head of the Nantaise right-back, who was currently backpedaling in panic, realizing he had lost his man.
Dário didn’t break his stride. He extended his right leg, killing the momentum of the seventy-yard pass with a crisp touch that dropped the ball perfectly onto the grass ahead of him. He breached the final third, driving aggressively toward the corner of the penalty area.
The Nantaise right-back scrambled to recover, closing the gap just as Dário reached the edge of the eighteen-yard box. The defender planted his feet, lowering his center of gravity, terrified of the winger cutting inside onto his stronger foot.
Dário recognized the defensive posture. The winger initiated a rapid, blinding sequence of step-overs, his cleats hovering millimeters over the ball. One! Two! Three!
The sspeed of the footwork completely scrambled the defender’s processing. The right-back shifted his weight to his left, anticipating a drive toward the byline.
Dário instantly chopped the ball sharply in the opposite direction, cutting inside with devastating acceleration.
The Nantaise defender lost his footing entirely. His cleats slipped on the grass, his ankles crossing as gravity took over. He dropped heavily to the turf, reduced to a spectator sitting on the pitch.
Dário had a clear sight of the goal. He was fifteen yards out, positioned in the left channel.