The Greatest of all Time

659  The Battle Begins

At 4:45 PM, the Ivorian players, dressed in their team tracksuits, eagerly hopped onto the bus bound for the Luzhniki Stadium. Excitement crackled in the air, and you could feel the anticipation building with every passing moment.

As they exited their hotel premises, they were greeted by a large gathering of fans and journalists lining the streets. The crowd's energy was electric, a bluster of cheers and waving flags creating a vibrant send-off for the team.

From his seat on the bus, Zachary Bemba looked out of the window—at the sea of faces. He saw many African fans, their numbers more than ever, and their expressions filled with hope and pride. It once again stirred something deep within him. The sight reminded him of the responsibility they bore. They weren't just playing for themselves or their team; they were playing for an entire continent. But that responsibility came with immense pressure.

Zachary knew that if they lost the final, all the glory they had achieved would be overshadowed by the disappointment of falling at the last hurdle. They would become a footnote in the story of the World Cup winners, a cautionary tale of what could have been.

To block out the growing anxiety, Zachary put on his headphones and switched on his music. The familiar beat of "Hall of Fame" by The Script and will.i.am filled his ears, the motivational lyrics resonating deeply. He subconsciously started humming along, his fingers tapping away the rhythm on his knee. Slowly, the anxiety began to ebb away, replaced by a surge of determination.

He noticed his teammates turning to look at him, curiosity piqued by the music he was humming. Those who understood English quickly joined in, singing along to the chorus, while the others clapped their hands and banged the seats in time with the beat. The atmosphere in the bus then slowly transformed from tense to jubilant. Wilfried Zaha and Eric Bailly, ever the entertainers, took the lead, their voices rising above the din, turning the bus into a moving choir. Even some bold members of the coaching staff joined in, clapping and singing, their earlier seriousness melting away in the shared moment of camaraderie.

When they finally arrived at the Luzhniki Stadium, the tension had been replaced with laughter and jokes. The power of music had worked its miracle, easing their nerves and lifting their spirits. As they disembarked, they were greeted by another sea of fans, the noise almost deafening. They could hear their names being shouted by the crowd, the resulting excitement a tangible force that threatened to sweep them off their feet. Zachary could see the pride and hope in the eyes of the fans, a reflection of what they were playing for.

The players waved to the fans before quickly disappearing into the stadium. After arriving in their dressing room, they changed into warm-up jerseys and headed to the pitch. They found the stadium a cauldron of noise, packed with over 70,000 supporters of different origins, colors, and cultures, hoping to witness the clash between Ivory Coast and France. Under the urging of Coach Hervé Renard, the players ignored the crowd and focused on their warm-up routine. The familiar exercises grounded them, providing a semblance of normalcy amid the chaos.

Three minutes into their routine, the French team stepped onto the pitch, greeted by a roar of approval from their supporters. But Zachary and his teammates remained focused, their eyes fixed on their task. They completed their warm-up within 20 minutes and returned to the dressing room, where they went through their final preparations. Hydrating, visiting the washroom, and even a pre-match prayer—all were done with an air of calm determination.

As Zachary pulled on his orange number ten jersey and laced up his Nike Mercurial Roc boots, he felt the familiar pre-match pressure returning. But he welcomed it, knowing that 'the little pressure' could sharpen his performance. At that moment, Coach Hervé Renard clapped his hands to draw everyone's attention.

"Alright, listen up!" Renard's voice cut through the murmur of the room, and the players turned to face him, their expressions solemn. "This is it. The moment we've been working towards. The moment you've dreamed of since you first kicked a ball. We've prepared... we've trained, and now it's time to give it everything we've got."

He paused, letting his words sink in, his gaze moving from player to player. "We're up against a strong team. France has the talent and the experience. But so do we. Remember our tactics—stick to the 4-2-3-1, play narrow, and deny them space. Wilfried Kanon, you'll need to be sharp while marking Mbappé. Eric, Lamine, and Aurier keep an eye on the rest of their forwards. And everyone, stay disciplined."

He turned to Zachary and Zaha. "You two are our key. Zachary, control the midfield like you always do. Zaha, we need your speed and creativity up front. Give it your all. No regrets."

The coach's words were met with nods and murmurs of agreement. The tension in the room was unmistakable. But it was a focused tension, the kind that precedes greatness.

Renard took a deep breath and continued, "I know I have said these words many times, but I'll repeat them today. This is our chance to make history. To become legends. Remember why you're here. Remember who you're playing for. Now, let's go out there and win the World Cup!"

The Ivorian players erupted with a zealous roar, their hearts ablaze with determination. They strode out of the locker room, their thoughts solely focused on the upcoming battle on the field.

With each step through the tunnel, the distant thunder of the crowd grew louder, echoing in their ears like a powerful symphony.

As they advanced, they came face to face with the formidable French squad, their deep blue jerseys a striking contrast in the dim light. Among them were Raphaël Varane, Paul Pogba, N'Golo Kanté, Kylian Mbappé, Antoine Griezmann, and Olivier Giroud, with steely gazes that reflected unwavering resolve.

Zachary spotted Blaise Matuidi, a teammate from his past year at Juventus. They exchanged a brief nod, a silent acknowledgment of respect and friendship, and just as quickly, Zachary refocused back on the task ahead. There was no room for distraction now. This was the pinnacle of their journey.

The anticipation built as the teams eventually lined up at the tunnel's exit. The air was thick with expectation, every second stretching into an eternity. Finally, the referees, ball in hand, led the teams out onto the field. The stadium exploded into noise—a clamor of cheers, vuvuzelas, and whistles that all blended into a chaotic symphony of excitement. The ground seemed to tremble under the sheer weight of the collective energy.

The national anthems began, each note sung with pride and vigor. Zachary felt a surge of emotion as "L'Abidjanaise" filled the air, his heart beating in time with the rhythm. The pre-match handshakes followed each player exchanging formal gestures, masking the fierce competitiveness that simmered beneath the surface.

The captains met in the center for the coin toss. With Gervinho injured, Sylvain Gbohouo stepped up, assuming the role of leader. The coin spun in the air, catching the light before landing. The decision was made, and the captains returned to their teams. Sylvain called the Ivorians into a huddle, his voice steady and commanding. n/ô/vel/b//in dot c//om

"Our motto today is unending focus and sharpness," he urged, his eyes sweeping across each face. "Play like warriors and destroy the opponents. We've come too far to falter now."

A collective roar of agreement rose from the group, voicing a primal sound that ignited Zachary's anticipation even more. They then broke the huddle, moving to their positions on the pitch. The clock was nearing 6:00 PM. The referee checked his watch, glanced at the keepers, and then, with a sharp blow of the whistle, the World Cup final commenced.

France started the proceedings with Olivier Giroud nudging the ball back into midfield. Paul Pogba, with his characteristic grace, controlled the ball before passing it to Samuel Umtiti, who quickly relayed it to Raphaël Varane. The French began their methodical build-up, passing the ball back and forth, establishing their rhythm.

The Ivorians, disciplined and focused, adhered to their game plan. They maintained tight lines, resisting the urge to press high. Instead, they focused on stability, hoping to bar the French players from easily breaking their defensive set-up early in the game. As the two teams settled into their respective rhythms, the game quickly became a tactical dance, with France probing and Ivory Coast absorbing, each side testing the other's resolve.

Zachary held his position, eyes scanning the field, mind working through every possible scenario. He communicated with his teammates, signaling them to stay composed and hold their ground. This was the calm before the storm, a necessary phase to weather the initial onslaught from France.

Then, as the clock ticked past the fifteen-minute mark, the Ivorians began to grow into the match. They started to push forward, occasionally launching calculated high presses. Wilfried Zaha, Nicolas Pépé, and Salomon Kalou, swift and cunning, led the charges, applying pressure on the French midfielders and defenders. Zachary always followed, trying to utilize his incredible game reading and spatial awareness to anticipate the opponents' passes. All the other Ivorian players also started making occasional strategic runs, hoping to dispossess France.

Finally, their hard work paid off, and an opportunity arose when Zachary intercepted a loose pass from Pogba. He calmly collected the ball and sidestepped past Antoine Griezmann, looking to break through the middle. But just as he began to get into a profound dribbling rhythm, a short man seemingly appeared out of the blue, sliding forward and sweeping Zachary off his feet. It was N'Golo Kanté who had taken action.