For once, all the boys were there. Their parents must have thrown them out, tired of seeing them always lounging on the couch, glued to computer games, or else using up their phone contracts. I gathered them together in the middle of the field, making sure Léonard was some distance away. Coming out of the locker room, he had stayed at the back of the group, as usual, and as the boys moved into the the center circle, he’d continued toward his net, with his slightly strange way of moving, like a planet that didn’t belong to the same solar system.
“We’re going to have two short halves of twenty minutes each. I want intensity, and I want pace. Don’t look for the knockout blow. Think about the match with Valenciennes. No hard tackles, okay?”
“Okay, sir!” they all said in unison.
I formed two groups, taking care to separate Cosmin and Léonard. I had an idea of the back of my mind and just before kick-off, while the boys were still warming up, I took Cosmin aside because he was the one I considered the best of my outfield players, the only one capable of grasping an instruction that was even slightly compex.
“I’d like you to approach this session in a different state of mind than usual,” I said to him.
“Whatever you say, sir.”
“I always ask you to respect the tactics I’ve laid out. You know why?”
“Of course. If you’re not in the right place and don’t prepare the play, you don’t get anywhere.”
“Except that if you always repeat the same tactics, your opponents remember them and find it easier to block them.”
“That’s also true, sir.”
“So what I’m asking you today is to move out of your comfort zone.”
“What do you mean, sir?”
He frowned. He knew perfectly well what I was talking about. But he was cautious by nature. He wanted to be sure he really understood how much free rein I was giving him.
“I mean I want you capable of going straight for the goal yourself, when everyone is expecting you to look for your center forward, or pass along the wings.”
“Hogging the ball, sir. I thought you hated that.”
“Well, today, that’s what I’d like to see.”
“Okay. You swear you won’t kill me afterwards?”
“I swear.”
I went back to the touchline. I heard the two sides calling each other names. They were excited by the dry, cold air, which made them want to get moving. I could happily have played with them. But I needed to keep my distance. Especially today, when I had that decision to make.
Léonard’s team put pressure on the other team’s goal, which was under siege for a good ten minutes. It never stopped, what with a bad save, a corner kick, the game never came back across the center circle, just kept returning to the other side, without Léonard having the slightest challenge to deal with. And then Marfaing blocked Bensaid, who’d become a bit isolated, and Cosmin took possession of the ball.
This was the moment I’d been waiting for. I looked to see where Léonard was, in his net. He seemed to have lost interest in the match. He was walking on his line, as if on a tightrope, looking down at his feet. I felt like crying out to alert him, but I pulled myself together. It was much more interesting like this. For Cosmin’s team, this was the ideal counterattack. Having put so much pressure on the goal, the other team had left their defense wide open and it was just a matter of finishing the job. Cosmin only had one last defender in front of him, Costes, who was trying to seem taller than he was by opening his arms wide. I wondered, at that moment, whether Cosmin was going to follow my instructions, or whether, conditioned by the previous training sessions, he was going to play it safe. In mid-run, he slowed down and saw Rouverand raising his arm. Of course it was the right thing to do. His center forward was absolutely alone, unmarked, the way he’s shown on the blackboard in the locker rooms, and it would have been a mistake, a foul even, not to give him the ball.
Cosmin was no more than thirty yards from the goal. He prepared his move and Rouverand was already opening the inside of his foot to take his offering. But no. Cosmin continued running toward the goal. Costes had already moved, trying to block that imaginary pass to Rouverand. Cosmin ran into the penalty area and followed up with a cross that was perfection itself. He had indeed hogged the ball, run with it, and produced a beautiful piece of improvisation. But as I, and the boys on the field, watched wide-eyed, what happened next belonged to Léonard, and only to him. Just when it all seemed done and dusted, he got down on the ground full length and deflected the ball with his fingertips.
Where had he come from to make a save like that? How had he guessed the right side? The break, the feints, Cosmin’s final play, everything had been too fast, and too well-executed, for the ball not to end up at the back of the net. Unless it met an exceptional goalkeeper on its way.
Cosmin ran back to his own team without making any bad-tempered gestures, incredulous rather, and the game resumed, but I could see from their faces that it was somehow over. If you couldn’t beat Léonard with a move like that, nobody else had any chance of success, and his team was bound to score eventually. And that was what happened. Hervalet scored an own goal, as a sign of discouragement. What could you do against a Martian?