CHAPTER 88: REALITY CHECK

The tunnel beneath Stade de Gerland reverberated with a noise that felt like it was rising from the earth itself. Forty thousand voices blended into a primal, hungry roar. Lyon’s supporters had been waiting for their chance to show that Monaco were mere pretenders in a title race that rightfully belonged to the champions.

Yves felt the weight of it all pressing down on him: the hostile chants, the immense pressure, and the knowledge that Lyon had experienced this before while Monaco were still finding their footing.

Yet, his players appeared ready. Giuly’s jaw was set, the captain’s armband snug around his bicep. Adebayor bounced on his toes, his eyes sparkling with anticipation. They were not afraid.

But perhaps they should be.

"Allez Monaco!" came the faint cry from their small corner of traveling supporters. Two thousand voices battling against forty thousand. David versus Goliath, but this was no fairytale.

The referee signaled. It was time to discover what they were truly made of.

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LIGUE 1 - MATCHDAY 20

OLYMPIQUE LYONNAIS vs AS MONACO

Stade de Gerland, Lyon

January 9th, 2004

The first whistle unleashed chaos.

Lyon charged at them like a pack of wolves. This was not the patient pressing Monaco was accustomed to—this was violent, coordinated, and suffocating. Three players hunted every touch, cutting off passing lanes before Monaco could even think.

Alonso tried to drop deep, searching for space to breathe. But Juninho was there, shadowing his every movement. The Brazilian’s reputation was built on free kicks, but his pressing game was just as lethal.

"Move! Find space!" Giuly shouted, but there was nowhere to go.

Monaco hadn’t completed more than three passes in a row for five minutes. This was championship football—raw, unforgiving, exposing every weakness.

Roma threw the ball to Evra. Instantly, three Lyon players converged. The left-back’s pass was hurried and weak, rolling straight to Govou.

The Lyon winger’s first touch was perfect. His second sent him flying past Givet as if the young defender weren’t there. Suddenly, he was in the box, cutting inside, with Roma scrambling to catch up.

The shot came low and hard. Roma got fingertips to it, deflecting it wide. The crowd erupted anyway—they could smell blood.

"Concentrate!" Rodriguez shouted to his defense, but his voice was lost in the din.

Juninho delivered the corner kick. Of course, it was him. The Brazilian stood over the ball like a surgeon preparing for an operation—precise and deadly.

The ball curled through the air with wicked spin. Bodies crashed together in the box. Roma came for it, hands outstretched, but Squillaci collided with him at the crucial moment.

The ball bounced loose. Free. Dangerous.

Somehow, Rodriguez got there first, hooking it clear. Monaco’s fans breathed a sigh of relief. But Lyon just smiled and pressed harder.

Eight minutes in, Monaco finally managed their first attack. D’Alessandro picked up the ball in the center circle, turned, and looked up. For a moment, the noise faded. This was what they did best—patient buildup and technical precision.

The Argentine found Rothen on the left. The winger took two touches and whipped in a cross that curved perfectly toward the far post. Adebayor was there, timing his jump to perfection.

But so was the Lyon defender. Their collision was brutal, with both men crashing to the turf. There was no whistle. Play on.

"Foul!" Monaco’s bench erupted, but the referee remained uninterested.

Lyon broke immediately. Govou was at it again, his pace terrifying on the counter. Evra was chasing shadows, completely turned around. The winger’s pass found their striker in acres of space.

Roma came out fast, spreading himself wide. The striker tried to go around him, and the ball and the goalkeeper collided in a tangle of limbs. Somehow, Roma emerged with the ball, hugging it to his chest as if his life depended on it.

Maybe it did.

"Better!" Yves called from the touchline, but his voice was tight. Lyon was operating on a different level—faster, sharper, hungrier. This was what three consecutive titles looked like.

Fifteen minutes passed in a blur of Lyon attacks and Monaco’s desperation. They were chasing the game without even being behind yet. Every touch was contested, every pass pressured, and every mistake punished.

Then came the eighteenth minute.

Alonso tried to play out from deep, looking for D’Alessandro’s run. But Juninho read it perfectly, intercepting with casual ease. The Brazilian’s touch was silky, setting up a pass that split Monaco’s defense wide open.

Their striker was through, one-on-one with Roma. The finish seemed inevitable—low, brutal, unstoppable.

But somehow, Roma got there. Diving full stretch, his fingertips brushed the ball just enough to send it wide. The saving of his life.

Lyon’s corner came immediately. Juninho stood over the ball again, that same surgical precision. The delivery was perfect, dropping right into the danger zone.

This time, there was no escape.

Bodies collided everywhere—pushing, shoving, desperate defending. But Lyon had done this before. Their movement was choreographed and practiced. The ball found the striker unmarked at the far post.

His header was unstoppable. Roma didn’t even dive.

1-0.

The stadium erupted. Forty thousand people were on their feet, scarves waving, voices hoarse with triumph. Lyon had drawn first blood, and everyone knew what that meant.

Monaco tried to respond immediately. Desperation replaced patience. Giuly picked up the ball and drove forward, beating one man, then another. His shot was fierce and goal-bound.

Until the defender threw himself in front of it. The ball cannoned off his chest, spinning away to safety. Lyon’s commitment was total—every tackle, every block, every sprint.

That’s what champions looked like.

Monaco’s equalizer had to come soon, or the mountain would become impossible to climb. D’Alessandro dropped deeper, trying to find pockets of space where Lyon’s pressing couldn’t reach him.

For a moment, it worked. The Argentine found Adebayor with a perfectly weighted pass. The young striker’s touch was brilliant, taking him past his marker in one fluid motion.

But the shot sailed high over the crossbar, forty yards into the crowd. It was the kind of miss that summed up Monaco’s afternoon perfectly.

Lyon sensed weakness like sharks smelling blood. Their pressing intensified—higher, faster, more aggressive. Monaco couldn’t escape their own half.

Thirty-five minutes gone, and the second goal felt inevitable.

It came from nowhere and everywhere at once. Evra attempted a simple pass to Alonso, but Lyon’s midfielder was there, stealing it with a perfectly timed challenge.

The counter-attack was devastating. Three passes later, Govou was flying down the left wing again, with Givet trailing behind as if running through mud.

The cross was perfect. Their striker didn’t even have to jump. A simple header. An easy finish.

2-0.

Silence fell over Monaco’s corner. Even their most optimistic fans knew what this meant. You don’t come back from two goals down against Lyon. Not at the Gerland. Not when they’re playing like this.

Yves stood motionless on the touchline, his tactical notebook forgotten in his hands. This was the gap—the difference between wanting to be champions and actually being champions.

Lyon made it look easy because it was easy for them.

The final ten minutes of the half were torture. Monaco threw bodies forward, desperate for anything to take to halftime. But Lyon just absorbed the pressure, looking for the killer third goal.

It nearly came in the forty-third minute. Juninho, inevitably, lined up a free kick from twenty-five yards. The ball flew like a guided missile, dipping and swerving. Roma’s save was spectacular, tipping it over the bar.

But the message was clear. Lyon wasn’t just better—they were different. They were operating at a level Monaco hadn’t reached yet.

Maybe they never would.

The halftime whistle brought blessed relief. Monaco’s players trudged toward the tunnel, heads down, spirits broken. Behind them, Lyon’s fans celebrated as if they had already won the title.

Maybe they had.

In the away dressing room, the silence was deafening. Players slumped on benches, staring at the floor. Some removed their boots, while others just sat there in their kits, sweat cooling on skin that felt clammy with failure.

"This is why Lyon are champions," Alonso muttered, breaking the silence.

Nobody argued. How could they? They had just been given a masterclass in elite football, and the lesson was simple: they weren’t ready. Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

Yves looked around the room at his players. They were good players, talented players, but Lyon had shown them what championship football truly looked like.

The brutal truth was more complicated to swallow than defeat: Monaco were still pretenders playing in a champions’ world.

And champions don’t give second chances.