Football singularity

Chapter 827: Chapter 827 Why He Say F Me?

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[28-06-2021 | Arena Națională, Bucharest | 20:39 EET]

[Germany 0-2 Switzerland]

[39’]

The Arena Națională sat in stunned silence as Switzerland jogged back to the halfway line, banging their chests and pointing at their bench. In the German end, scarves that had been raised in defiance ten minutes earlier now hung limp against the drizzle. Löw stood on the touchline with both hands buried in his coat pockets, watching his team restart with the eyes of a man watching a house burn.

Whatever he was thinking, he did not act on it as no board went up and no substitute was called. Despite clearly needing a change, the system stubbornly stayed regardless of the wave of boos from their fans. They were a passionate and proud football folk, and with that came a certain expectation of their team.

Losing so easily to a team they saw beneath them in terms of talent was not something they could accept. Just six years ago they stood atop the footballing world, and now they couldn’t even survive one knockout-stage game. If the team was doing all it could, they could still accept the result, but being outplayed without an answer wasn’t something they could accept.

"Do you hear that crowd, Alan?" Tyler observed. "I beg to think they are louder than the celebrating Swiss and they are far from happy."

"Even if he wanted to make changes so close to half time, it could lead to more problems, Martin," Smith noted as the German side restarted the game. "It’s a losing game as he had three years to figure it out after the Russia debacle in 2018. Being unprepared is no longer good enough for the Germans."

Germany responded by pouring bodies forward, launching frantic attacks that their fans had gotten all too used to seeing after their side fell behind. Kroos abandoned his double pivot post entirely, drifting into the ten space and dragging Freuler with him. Goretzka pushed up, allowing Müller to move alongside Werner, and suddenly there were five white shirts inside the Swiss half at any given moment.

They swarmed like cancer cells devouring the territory of the red Swiss players, who gave up applying pressure, looking for a break. Müller nutmegged Xhaka on the edge of the final third, then slid the ball into Rakim on the left. The youngster whipped in a first-time curling ball with the outside of his boot across the face of the box that Sommer had to punch clear at full stretch, before Werner could get a glimpse of it.

The parry fell to Gnabry twenty yards out, and the Bayern winger struck it first time on the half-volley, the ball dipping wickedly through the rain toward the top left corner. The Arena rose as one, breath held as Sommer flung himself full stretch, one glove clawing at the air, and the ball thudded against the inside of the crossbar with a hollow ring before bouncing down onto the goal line and out. Akanji hacked it clear for a throw before anyone could pounce.

"OH, GNABRY!" Tyler shouted. "Off the bar! Inches from bringing Germany back to life!"

"That’s lady luck telling Löw something, Martin," Smith said, shaking his head. "You can play the prettiest possession football in the world, but goals are all that matter. Hoping for a desperate twenty-yard bomb won’t cut it, but I’d like to see more of that intensity in the second half."

The referee let the corner develop, but the delivery was overhit, sailing straight into Sommer’s grateful arms. The Swiss keeper held it for a long beat before rolling it out to Elvedi, letting a full thirty seconds tick off the clock as Petković shouted from the touchline for his men to reset. The whistle came moments later, three short blasts against the drizzle.

(FWEEET! FWEEET!)

"And that is halftime in Bucharest," Tyler announced. "Switzerland lead Germany two-nil, and if Joachim Löw’s boys have a massive hole to climb out of in the next forty-five minutes."

[HT: Germany 0-2 Switzerland]

~~~

[Germany Locker Room]

Die Mannschaft was a sight for sore eyes in the home team locker room, with players looking as if they had been through a battlefield. Players sat slumped in their seats, the smell of VapoRub and Tiger Balm wafting through the air as some received treatment. No one talked, let alone dared to breathe too loudly, and held their breath, trying to will themselves to awaken what was obviously an illusion.

Rakim sat in his corner relatively alone, with Gnabry two seats from him. Wirtz had left to do a light warm-up with the other substitutes. He sat with his back resting against the wall, a towel draped over his head, wishing he had been allowed to wear his Titan-Fit hood. His mind was running a hundred miles a minute, trying to figure out what he should change to make the team better, knowing that winning was all that mattered.

(Bang) The door slammed shut with a loud bang, silencing the room to another level, if that was even possible. Löw walked into the middle of the room, without a tablet in hand nor a tactics board. Fredrick Bauer stayed by the door, arms folded, reading the room. The German set his jaw once, twice, and then turned in a slow half-circle to look at each man on the benches.

"Two-nil," he said. His voice was low, flat, and dangerous. "Two fucking-nil to Switzerland (Bang)."

He swung his hand, sending the propped whiteboard crashing to the ground, the magnetic stickers scattering everywhere. "Tell me if I am wrong, but we are in a round of sixteen, right?" His question was left unanswered, not that he wanted a response to begin with. Nobody moved. Kimmich was the only one who lifted his head, and even he did it slowly.

"I have been coaching this national team for fifteen years." Löw’s tone did not rise. "In those fifteen years, I have watched some very bad halves of football from German sides. I have watched us go down to Italy. I have watched us go out to South Korea. I have watched Spain put six past us in Seville six months ago." He paused. "Nothing I have watched today is worse than any of that. But it is not far off; all of you played terrible across the board except for Neuer, but he is the keeper."

"It’s bad enough he has to help in defence; you want him to score the goals too?" Hummels shifted on the bench, but Löw did not spare him a glance. "You all look dead out there, no passion, urgency or desire on the ball and trust me, they can tell. They are making you look average out there, and you’re letting them have some pride for the badge."

"Timo," he said, and Werner’s head came up.

"Ja, Trainer."

"You had one chance, the one Sommer saved." Timo subconsciously nodded. "I do not want to hear about it when you went MIA for the rest of the match."

He turned, finding the next player. "Toni." Kroos looked up, appearing calm. "Are you tired? Do you need a break? Or are you getting bored out there? I did not put you and Leon on the pitch together so you could take turns not tracking runners. How you finish is just as important as your highest moments."

Kroos did not answer and only nodded. "Ilkay is on the bench," Löw added quietly. "Jamal is on the bench. Florian is on the bench. Every one of them is warmer than most of you are right now. Remember that when I look at the clock in ten minutes."

He kept moving past Rüdiger, who was already staring straight ahead, past Gosens, past Kimmich, past Neuer, whose gloves were folded neatly on his lap. He stopped at Gnabry. "Serge, my friend."

"Trainer."

"The bar does not count; nothing counts unless it goes in. You know this."

"Ja."

He turned again, and this time his eyes settled on the corner, and he took two steps forward, until he was standing directly in front of the towel-draped figure in the number twenty-two shirt. Then he threw a wet training bib, hitting Rakim on the shoulder and slid down onto the towel across his knees. The seventeen-year-old pulled the towel off his head, annoyance emanating from his body, blinked once against the fluorescent lights, and glanced up at his manager, looking as if he had genuinely just been asleep for two seconds.

"Rakim, am I boring you?" He sent a look that seemed to be asking, ’Are you talking to me?’

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TO BE CONTINUED...

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