The dread among the Argentine fans seemed contagious.
The stands that had once been a solid wash of blue and white had gone strangely quiet now, only scattered cheers were surfacing here and there, swallowed up by France's deafening roar.
And what's more—most of the Brazilian fans in the stadium were cheering for France too.
Ever since Brazil had been knocked out by France, they'd turned, almost perversely, into France's supporters.
As if—so long as France became champions, or better yet, beat Argentina by a wide margin—losing to France wouldn't sting quite so much.
At least then they could say they'd lost to the champions.
Meanwhile, back home in Argentina, the fans glued to their televisions had also fallen into a hush.
In front of the giant screens lining the streets, the crowds that had gathered stood with their heads down, faces full of despair. Some turned and walked away without a word. Others crouched on the ground, heads in their hands, sobbing quietly.
They loved this game. But the gods of football, it seemed, were not smiling on Argentina this time.
Soon, Julien's celebration for his brace came to an end.
Play resumed.
France, by now, was playing an increasingly conservative game.
A two-goal lead gave them all the confidence they needed to pull back their lines and shut the door completely, refusing Argentina even a sliver of a chance to turn things around.
On the touchline, Deschamps kept gesturing, signalling his players to hold their defence and protect the lead.
There was no need to rush forward. Because to attack was to invite risk.
And right now, France had no use for risk—all they needed was for the clock to run out faster.
France's shape drew in completely: at front, only Giroud remained as a token outlet, while Julien dropped back into midfield to help out defensively and wait patiently for a chance to counter.
The instant an Argentine player took the ball anywhere near the front, French players would close in at the same time, using their bodies to crowd out any room to work.
Forcing the man on the ball to get rid of it in a hurry. And when it came to Argentina's star Messi, France had rolled out a defensive structure built entirely around shutting him down.
The moment Messi so much as touched the ball, at least two French players would swarm him—sometimes three, closing in together leaving him no room to dribble, no lane to pass.
Kanté, for his part, had abandoned every other defensive duty to stick to Messi like a burr, following him everywhere on the pitch.
Wherever Messi ran, Kanté went too.
He didn't dive in recklessly, but he never once lost his position—even when Messi tried to shake him with a change of direction, a spin, Kanté clung on without letting go, as if Messi were the only opponent he could see.
Every other Argentine run, every other pass—he had no attention left to spare for any of it.
And that—was the thing that irritated Messi most.
This small, dark-haired defender wasn't necessarily the strongest marker, but he was simply impossible to shake.
Whenever a sliver of space opened up, Kanté would close it down again almost instantly.
With the rest of the French defence covering behind him, there was little Messi could do but keep passing the ball on, searching for an opening.
He felt utterly helpless.
His teammates couldn't manage to pull open any space for him at all—he was left to shoulder France's entire targeted defence on his own.
Time ticked on.
In the 38th minute, Enzo Pérez received the ball out wide and tried to thread it to Messi in the middle, but the pass was cut out by Evra the instant it left his foot.
Kanté rushed in to gather the loose ball and knocked it back to Varane, deep in France's own half.
Varane didn't push it forward right away. He played it sideways instead.
France kept possession this way, with nothing but simple slow passes, showing no trace of impatience at all.
Two goals up, they were in no rush at all—hold the lead, and wait for Argentina to commit numbers forward, then hit them on the break.
That, for now, was their only objective.
Argentina, by contrast, was as anxious as ants on a hot skillet, with Messi smothered so completely he couldn't get his usual passing game going at all.
Again and again, he tried to find the ball in midfield, and the moment he touched it, Kanté would be right there, with Pogba or Cabaye arriving a sec later to close the trap.
Messi fought with everything he had to dribble past them or find a pass, but the ball kept getting stripped away by Kanté or the pass kept getting cut out—he simply could not tear open France's defensive line.
Higuaín held his position furthest forward, starved of any promising service, left to make fruitless runs back and forth.
Lavezzi and Enzo Pérez tried to break through on the flanks, but France's defenders kept shoulder-checking them back, one physical challenge after another.
The commentator chimed in:
"France's defence is too conservative but also far too solid! They've abandoned all hope of attacking and are single-mindedly protecting their lead. The way they've handled Messi especially is close to perfect—Kanté has stuck to him the entire match, and with his teammates piling on to help, Messi simply has no room to work with."
"Argentina is on the back foot right now. With Messi neutralized, their attack has lost its centre of gravity—if this keeps up, it'll be very hard for them to find a way back level."
In the 42nd minute, Argentina found a faint glimmer of a chance: Messi managed, with great difficulty, to shake off Kanté's close marking in midfield.
He fed the ball to Lavezzi, who drove forward to the edge of the box and looked to unleash a shot from distance, but he hesitated for just a sec and just like that, the space was gone.
Before he could even get his shot away, Sagna stepped in and barged into him hard with his shoulder.
Off balance, Lavezzi forced the shot anyway, and it flew wide of the goal.
Lavezzi appealed to the referee, insisting it had been a foul, calling for a free kick.
The referee ruled Sagna's challenge fair.
Play carried on.
Lavezzi shook his head helplessly.
Up in the stands, the Argentine fans grew even more anxious.
France, meanwhile, remained completely calm.
They understood perfectly well that as long as they held onto their 2-0 lead, they'd have all the time they needed to make adjustments while Argentina, growing more desperate, would only make more mistakes.
The atmosphere on the pitch grew heavier and heavier.
France's defence was airtight; Argentina's attacks kept breaking down against it.
Fatigue had begun to show on Messi's face.
On the sideline, Sabella paced back and forth, his expression was growing grimmer by the minute.
The two minutes of stoppage time passed quickly.
Tweet!
The referee glanced at his watch and blew the whistle for halftime.
At the Maracanã, the French fans erupted in cheers in unison, while the Argentine fans could only let out a helpless sigh.
The score remained 2-0, France leading at the break on the strength of Julien's brace.
The players walked off toward the tunnel one by one.
The French players slapped hands and chatted with one another—Julien walked alongside Kanté, praising his defensive work.
The Argentine players, by contrast, trudged off with their heads hanging.
Sabella walked behind his players, his face looked heavy, already turning over the tactical changes he'd need to make for the second half.
Down 2-0 at the break, Argentina had no room left to manoeuvre.
As the players marched into the locker room—the sound of heavy breathing filled the air, along with the sharp, clear patter of sweat dripping onto the floor.
The players sat scattered around the room in twos and threes in front of their lockers.
Some sat with their heads down, wiping the sweat from their faces with towels; others braced their hands on their knees, staring blankly at the ground.
The 2-0 deficit at the half pressed down on every one of them like a boulder.
Messi sat in the corner in front of his locker, having peeled off his soaked jersey, sweat sliding down his forehead and along his cheeks. He said nothing, only wiped away the sweat in silence.
Mascherano stood up and walked to the centre of the room, clapping his hands, trying to rouse his teammates from their low spirits: "Guys, I know it's hard right now, being down two goals but the match isn't over. We've still got 45 minutes. We still have a chance. Don't give up!"
He was the soul of this team! But what answered him was, for the most part, silence.
Only a few teammates lifted their heads and murmured agreement.
It was right then that Sabella pushed open the locker room door and walked in.
No greetings, no small talk.
He walked straight to the tactics board, picked up a marker, and rather than speaking at once, let his gaze sweep slowly over every player, pausing in turn on Messi, Higuaín, Mascherano, and the others.
Only once the room had gone completely silent did he finally speak. "I know the first half was rough for us. Our attack kept breaking down, and none of you feel good about it right now. But I need to tell you something."
"This is not the time to blame yourselves. It's not the time to sink into it either. In the second half, we will fight with our backs against the wall!"
"So, what if we're down 2-0? They locked down the score in the first half by playing pure defence—in the second half, they'll only get more conservative, only think more about running down the clock. That's our opening!"
"We have no way back now. Either we fight until the very last second, or we walk off this pitch with nothing. I know none of you want a lifelong dream to be ruined in these 45 minutes!"
The players nodded, one after another. Perhaps it was precisely because they were so afraid of losing that it hurt this much. Because it really did look like they were about to lose.
Sabella didn't linger on the point. Instead, he moved straight into adjusting the tactics, and the first player he turned to was Messi.
"Leo, I need you to change your position. Stop dropping back into midfield to collect the ball—stay higher up the pitch. Our attack needs you there. Plant yourself just in front of France's box, cut back on unnecessary dribbling, save your energy, and focus on linking play and finishing."
Messi nodded.
Sabella turned next to Mascherano. "Javier, push up a bit. I want you handling the midfield link-up—get the ball straight to Leo's feet. Don't make him keep dropping deep and burning through his legs."
He paused, then went on laying out the plan. "Lucas, you stay in midfield, purely defensive. Focus on cutting out France's counterattacking passes—especially to Julien."
"Don't let him spring a counter easily!"
At the mention of Julien's name, Sabella's expression darkened noticeably—it was Julien, after all, who had torn through Argentina's defence and scored twice.
It left Sabella with not the slightest shred of goodwill toward the man.
If a player like that hadn't been Argentine, Sabella would have hated him for the rest of his life.
Especially for scoring in a match like this one.
It only made Sabella hate him more.
Because Julien had become the very obstacle standing between Argentina and the trophy!
Shaking off the thought, Sabella turned his attention to Lavezzi and Pérez. "Ezequiel, Enzo, I want the two of you spreading wide on the flanks, making plenty of diagonal runs to drag France's defenders out of position and open up gaps through the middle."
"Once you've got the ball, don't hesitate—either cut inside and cross it, or take the shot from distance yourselves. Put pressure on their back line."
"Whatever it takes, find space for Leo!"
"Gonzalo!"
Sabella's voice rose a notch as he turned his eyes to Higuaín. "I know the first half weighed on you, but don't let one mistake trap you. Hold your position up top, focus on getting on the end of passes."
"Remember—stay calm. Stay calm no matter what!"
"Even if you only get one chance, make it count. Your pace and your finishing are the key to breaking their defence open."
Finally, he pointed to the penalty area marked on the tactics board. "Don't let up on the back line and on the flanks, don't push forward carelessly, or we'll be exposed to the counter.
Our plan is simple: Leo links the play through the middle, the wide men stretch their line, Gonzalo occupies their centre-backs up front, we work in quick, short combinations, and we create as many chances as we can for Leo to shoot. Break through just once, and this whole match changes."
Sabella's words gradually brought the room back to life.
Higuaín slowly raised his head, his voice hoarse but steady: "Coach, understood. Second half, I'll make it count."
Messi rose slowly to his feet as well. "We have no way back now. For Argentina, for our dream—we fight to the very last second!"
Mascherano nodded hard, fist clenched. "That's right—let's fight! We've still got 45 minutes. As long as we don't give up, there's still hope!"
Lavezzi, Enzo Pérez, and the others rose to their feet one after another too.
Di María, still unable to take the pitch himself, called out to his teammates all the same: "Come on, brothers! I'm right here with you—fighting alongside you!"
Sabella looked at the players before him, drawn back together again, and nodded, satisfied. "Good. This is the Argentina I know. Remember—in the second half, let's show the French our resilience!"
Unlike Argentina's locker room—in another place, the mood in France's locker room was thoroughly relaxed.
Their 2-0 lead at the half had handed them complete control of the match.
Deschamps didn't waste time firing his players up. He simply kept emphasizing: "You all did well in the first half—the defence held firm, the counters were sharp, and Julien's two goals gave us the edge. But I need to remind you, the match isn't over yet. In the second half, our core approach doesn't change—we will keep defending and countering."
"Argentina is going to throw everything they have at us in the second half—they'll pressure us in every way they can. What I need from you is to hold the line, execute the defensive plan without wavering. But watch your discipline, especially near the box—no needless fouls, and above all, no cards."
"I can live with conceding a goal—after all, they've got a player of Messi's calibre, and lapses can happen against someone like him. But what I absolutely cannot accept is a player losing his composure over some rash challenge and getting sent off, leaving us to play a man down. A man down, and our defensive burden multiplies—the advantage we've built would vanish in an instant. I don't want to see that happen. Understood?"
"Understood!"
Everyone knew how much discipline mattered—especially on the stage of a World Cup final.
A single lapse could cost them the entire match.
With that, Deschamps issued one more solemn warning: "One more thing, and I need everyone to hear this clearly."
"Don't for a second think we're already world champions. Until the match is over—until the referee blows that final whistle—we are not champions yet. No one can afford to relax, not even slightly. Stay focused, every single one of you, the whole way through."
"Play every single minute as if it were the very last minute of the match!"
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