"They scored?!" Liu Jianhong's voice was full of disbelief. "Grenoble scored first? In the eighth minute, Ljuboja scored from distance! That shot-Sorin reacted too slowly. He should have saved that!"
"Yes, something's wrong with Sorin's form," Xu Yang said with a frown. "The shot wasn't particularly well placed or powerful. With Sorin in his normal form, there's no way he wouldn't have saved it. He doesn't seem very fired up today."
Zhang Kuang stood near the center circle, watching Grenoble's players embrace in celebration, his brow creasing slightly.
1-0, behind away from home.
It was all right.
There were still more than eighty minutes left.
That was what he told himself.
But just two minutes later, the nightmare continued.
The tenth minute.
Grenoble attacked again. This time, they came down the right, where Japan international Daisuke Matsui received the ball out wide, shifted to create an angle, and sent in a high cross.
The ball flew toward the center of the penalty area, dropping near the edge of the six-yard box.
Auxerre's two defenders, Grichting and Hengbart, were both in position. They were not outnumbered in defense.
Grenoble's number 17 striker, Nassim Akrour, jumped between them, but Grichting had the better position and should, by rights, have cleared it first.
But Grichting misjudged it.
He jumped a fraction of a second too late. By the time he reached the top of his leap, the ball had already sailed over his head.
Akrour headed toward goal.
The ball was neither fast nor particularly well placed, heading straight into Sorin's arms.
Under normal circumstances, Sorin should have held it comfortably.
But he was not his normal self today.
He spilled the save.
The ball slipped out of his gloves and dropped into the goal.
2-0.
"GOOOOOOOOOOAL!" France 1 presenter Bart's trademark roar rang out. He was just as excited no matter who scored.
"???" Dugarry, meanwhile, looked completely bewildered, unable to understand why Auxerre had conceded twice in two minutes.
The Beijing studio!
"..." Liu Jianhong fell silent for a full two seconds.
"This..." Xu Yang did not know what to say either.
The atmosphere in the studio dropped to freezing point.
"Two goals conceded in two minutes." Liu Jianhong finally spoke, his voice hoarse. "The first goal came from a mistake by Sorin, and the second was another mistake by Sorin.
"Of course, there were lapses in the back line too, and even more of a disconnect in midfield. Auxerre's goalkeeper is completely off form today. This can't go on."
"Yes, it's not just the goalkeeper," Xu Yang added, his tone heavy. "Auxerre's entire midfield has been locked down. Pedretti and N'Dinga can't get the ball, and even when they do, they can't move it on. Grenoble's five-man midfield strangulation tactic has been extremely successful. They've completely cut off Auxerre's passing lanes."
"What about Zhang Kuang?"
"Zhang Kuang..." Xu Yang glanced at the statistics. "Ten minutes played, and Zhang Kuang has touched the ball three times. Three times. A striker touching the ball just three times in ten minutes tells you Auxerre simply can't get the ball into the attacking third."
The Japanese internet had already exploded.
"Matsui-kun with the assist! Did you see that? That's the quality of a Japan international!"
"Two goals up! Grenoble are going to win!"
"Where's that Chinese guy? Why haven't I seen him? Oh, he's out for a stroll."
"Nine goals in three games? Why can't he score against the bottom team? Is Ligue 1 defending really that good?"
"It's not that Ligue 1 defending is good. Grenoble's tactics counter Auxerre. Smother Pedretti with five midfielders, and half of Auxerre's attack is crippled."
"Whatever you say, Matsui-kun's performance completely outclasses that Chinese guy's!"
"Asia's number one? Beat Matsui-kun first, then talk."
On the Chinese internet, the mood was the complete opposite.
"What the fuck is going on? Two goals down?"
"Is the keeper here for a laugh? Both shots were clearly savable, and he stopped neither?"
"Pedretti's been locked down. The ball can't even reach the attacking third. How is Zhang Kuang supposed to score without getting the ball?"
"Grenoble have set up their defensive tactics really well. Auxerre have been completely stunned."
"Calm down, calm down. There are still more than eighty minutes left. There's time."
"Time, my ass! Two goals down, midfield locked down, goalkeeper on zero form. How are they supposed to play?"
"Believe in Zhang Kuang. He can create a miracle."
"How? They can't even get the ball to his feet. How's he supposed to create one?"
On the touchline, Fernandez's expression went from calm to grave, then from grave to blank.
He stood there with both hands in his coat pockets, his eyes fixed on the situation on the pitch, but his mind seemed unable to keep pace.
In the past ten minutes, his team had gone from fourth in Ligue 1 to an amateur side that did not know how to play football.
The midfield could not keep the ball.
The back line could not play it out.
The forwards could not get the ball.
The goalkeeper could not save it.
Every link had gone wrong, and for the moment, he could find no solution.
Grenoble head coach Mohamed Bazdarevic stood on the other touchline, smug satisfaction written all over his face.
His five-man midfield tactic had completely locked down the starting point of Auxerre's attacks, turning the team with Ligue 1's best defense into a sieve.
That was football.
Rankings, market values, reputations-they were nothing in the face of tactics.
Zhang Kuang stood near the center circle with his hands on his hips, watching Grenoble's players embrace as they celebrated their second goal.
His expression looked calm, but his mind was already racing.
Ten minutes, three touches.
This was not his problem. It was a problem with the team as a whole.
Pedretti had been locked down.
Grenoble's five midfielders had cut off all of Auxerre's passing lanes. Every time Pedretti received the ball, he faced at least two defenders, with another providing cover behind him. He had no room to move the ball on.
N'Dinga was in even worse shape. His passing was already inferior to Pedretti's, and under Grenoble's high press, he could not even shield the ball properly.
With the midfield out of control, the forwards became mere ornaments.
Even the best striker could not score without getting the ball.
Zhang Kuang took a deep breath, then raised his head and looked toward the touchline.
Fernandez stood there, looking blank.
The veteran coach seemed stunned by everything that had suddenly happened-all the tactics, arrangements, and contingency plans prepared before the match had lost their meaning in the face of a two-goal deficit.
Zhang Kuang did not hesitate.
While Grenoble's players were still celebrating, he ran from his own half toward the touchline, heading straight for Fernandez.
"Coach!" His voice was loud enough for the nearby substitutes to hear.
Fernandez froze for a moment, then turned to look at him.
"Coach, our midfield's been locked down." Zhang Kuang spoke quickly, but every word was clear. "Pedretti can't get the ball, and even when he does, he can't pass it out. Grenoble have five players swarming our two holding midfielders. The ball can't get past midfield."
Fernandez opened his mouth, wanting to say something, but nothing came out.
Of course he knew all that.
But he had not yet worked out how to solve it.
"Coach, we have to change tactics," Zhang Kuang continued, looking Fernandez straight in the eye. "If midfield's locked down, stop insisting on building through it.
"Play long balls straight to me from the back, or go down the wings and have Oliech and Birsa get to the byline. Don't let Pedretti and N'Dinga hold on to the ball too long. Every extra second it stays at their feet is another second of risk that they'll lose it."
Fernandez stared at Zhang Kuang for several seconds. The blankness in his eyes gradually gave way to a strange clarity.
His own player had opened his eyes.
"You're right." The veteran coach finally spoke, his voice a little hoarse. "Down the wings. Long balls to you. No more going through midfield."
He turned and shouted to the players on the pitch, "Pedretti! N'Dinga! Stop holding on to the ball in midfield! Play it long straight to Zhang! Oliech! Birsa! Get wide! Get to the byline and cross, or cut inside!"
Then he added, "Everyone, get the ball forward as soon as we win it back! No sideways passes!"
Hearing their head coach's shouts, Auxerre's players finally nodded as though waking from a dream.
Zhang Kuang returned to the pitch and gestured to Pedretti-long balls, to me.
Pedretti glanced at him and nodded.