Saturday, August 23, 2003 – Stade Louis-II
The air was still.
The sun had settled over the concrete bleachers like a weight, heat rising off the seats in soft waves that made the far end of the stadium shimmer. It wasn't a full crowd—Louis-II never started full. The home fans trickled in with sunglasses and slow steps, sweat already staining shirts at the collar. In the corner section, the Nice supporters were loud from the first second, their chants sharp, drums hollow, cutting through the lull like knives across canvas.
Demien stood in the tunnel, coat off, shirt sleeves rolled, collar unbuttoned. He didn't speak. Michel was saying something to the fourth official. Zikos adjusted his tape. Giuly tugged twice at the bottom of his shirt like it didn't fit quite right.
The team walked out without fanfare.
Rothen blinked against the light. Morientes nodded once at the ref and said nothing else. D'Alessandro, in full kit but benched, walked out last behind the staff and sat next to the reserve keeper, eyes straight ahead, legs crossed.
The whistle blew.
Kickoff.
Six minutes in, Giuly found his angle.
Bernardi had dropped deeper to shake off the man shadowing him, and Zikos rolled it out first-time into Giuly's lane. No hesitation. One touch to burst past the fullback, second to glance up.
The cross was low. Sharp. Aimed front post.
Morientes slid for it—but the center-back stuck a foot out just in time.
Cleared.
The ball skidded back toward midfield. Bernardi jogged into the space behind it, hands already up to re-set.
Demien didn't react.
By the eleventh minute, the pattern was clear.
Nice stayed flat—two lines of four, compact and close. No press. No bite. Just wait.
Monaco had to force it.
Cissé picked up the ball off a recycled throw and looked inside—too slow.
No options.
He turned his hip and struck from 25 yards.
The ball soared. Over the bar. Over the banners. Landed somewhere behind the keeper's net.
The Nice fans howled.
Demien adjusted his stance at the sideline. No whistle. No signal. Just stood.
Seventeen minutes. Rothen drifted wide, stretched the field.
Evra slipped it into his feet and darted past for the return.
Rothen didn't use him.
Instead, he took a touch, then whipped the cross early—too early.
It sailed long. Past the far post. Out for a goal kick.
Morientes turned with his palms up, not angry, just asking.
Rothen looked down. Jogged back without response.
Demien walked up to the edge of the technical box.
Said nothing.
By the twenty-third minute, the heat had taken something out of the rhythm. Not pace, but belief.
Bernardi finally broke the pattern—intercepted a lazy inside pass and carried it five strides forward before threading a pass through the lines.
Morientes read it late. Took a heavier first touch than usual.
The ball ran long. The keeper scooped it up.
The stadium exhaled in collective disappointment, a sound soft but heavy.
From the bench, D'Alessandro leaned forward slightly. Didn't speak. Just watched the shape reset.
Demien turned back toward Michel.
No changes yet.
But the door was beginning to creak.
Twenty-eight minutes in and Nice were still tucked deep in their half, two lines of four, one man pressing just enough to pretend. They weren't playing football—they were closing windows.
Giuly dropped deeper now, checking into half-spaces that didn't exist. Zikos began to pull wider, stretching the midfield out of shape to create something, anything. But every time they moved centrally, Nice collapsed like a closing fist.
Demien stood arms folded, jaw set.
Cissé had just lost another duel in midfield, checked his shoulder late, and offered a tired jog on recovery.
Demien didn't shout. Just raised a hand and gave a single roll of the fingers—faster, tighter. Reset the rhythm.
Thirty-two minutes. Rothen again.
Evra stepped past his man to create a decoy run, but Rothen didn't see it. Or didn't trust it. Instead, he turned inward, dragging the ball across his boot before curling a right-footed switch out toward Giuly.
It hung too long in the air.
Nice's right-back won the header clean. Restarted possession with one touch and a second into midfield.
Transition.
Zikos reacted first—quick step across the gap, won it back before it became a threat.
No cheers. Just a hand clap from Bernardi.
Demien glanced to his left. Stone had just stepped out from the tunnel, arms crossed, eyes fixed. He said nothing.
Thirty-five minutes gone.
Morientes finally peeled off the shoulder of the center-back, found five meters of space and pointed into the channel.
Bernardi obliged. Through ball. Weight was perfect.
But the timing was half a second late. Morientes had to slow down, take a touch, then another, and by then the window was gone. He laid it off to Cissé, who took too long to shape the shot and got swarmed by two red shirts before he could lift his leg.
Ball lost.
Rothen clapped in frustration. Cissé dropped his head.
Demien called for the reset. His voice cut short across the pitch.
"Back in. Again."
At minute thirty-nine, the first real danger came—against Monaco.
A lazy diagonal from Rodriguez was picked off by Nice's striker, who sprinted at Givet with space on the inside. A one-two off the shoulder, a step across Zikos, and suddenly it was three-on-three.
Demien stepped into the technical area.
The cross came in low—Roma smothered it at the near post, just in time.
Silence in the home end. For a second, even the Nice fans held their breath.
Roma stood, hands raised, voice low. Givet raised his hand in apology. Rodriguez turned away.
Demien didn't speak.
Just one glance toward Michel, then back to the pitch.
Forty-three minutes.
A foul finally gave Monaco a free-kick from the edge of the area.
Giuly had been clipped cutting inside. He stood over it with Rothen, both staring at the ball like it owed them something.
Rothen tapped it short. Giuly struck it low—into the wall. The rebound bounced to Bernardi, whose touch betrayed him.
Turnover.
Groans.
Halftime whistle blew like a door slam.
No goals.
No open lanes.
Nice jogged off like they hadn't even played yet.
Giuly dropped his head. Morientes unclipped his armband and walked straight down the tunnel without speaking. Rothen pulled at his socks like they were strangling him.
D'Alessandro remained seated until the last starter disappeared.
Only then did he stand.
Still zipped.
Still quiet.
Demien turned without a word and walked into the tunnel.
Behind him, the air hadn't moved.
Just heat.
And pressure.
Stade Louis-II, Halftime Locker Room
The door shut behind the last player with a thick echo that stuck to the walls. No yelling. No crashing boots. Just the soft rhythm of breathing and the scratch of tape being pulled off too fast.
Cissé slumped near the water rack, shirt soaked down the back, chewing his lip. Giuly leaned on the bench, hands on thighs. Rothen hadn't even sat. He stood with his arms over his head, pacing a tight line in front of the massage table.
Demien entered last. The door didn't slam. It clicked.
He didn't bark orders. He didn't glare. He stood near the tactics board and looked at no one in particular.
"You're forcing the space," he said.
His voice was even. Too even.
"That's why it's not opening."
The silence that followed wasn't obedience. It was clarity.
Demien turned, stepped past Morientes, and walked straight toward Cissé.
The midfielder didn't look up. Not until Demien stopped directly in front of him.
"One more dribble," Demien said, low and sharp, "and I'll replace you with someone who sees the pass."
Cissé didn't answer. Just swallowed once. Nodded.
Demien turned again, let his eyes scan the room—and stopped, just for a second, on the far bench.
D'Alessandro was there.
Still zipped to the throat.
Still quiet.
Hands clasped in his lap. Watching.
Waiting.
Demien held the stare for no more than a breath.
Then he turned back to the board.
No speeches. No threats.
Just a single sentence as he uncapped the marker and drew the first line of the second-half shape.
"We go again."