Date: Monday, September 1, 2003
Demien didn't stop walking.
"That's the idea."
By morning, the room was packed.
Rows of plastic chairs were pressed shoulder to shoulder, with laptops open before the questions started. Half the journalists wore suits with scuffed shoes, while the other half wore trainers with notepads balanced on their knees. No one looked casual.
Demien entered with Stone at his side and Xabi behind them, the translator close by. The press officer had already adjusted the microphone levels. The mics would pick up everything—scrapes, coughs, and silence.
Demien sat without adjusting his chair or touching the bottle of water in front of him.
Stone began,
"Thank you for joining us. Questions will be taken through the floor mic. Coach Laurent and Mr. Alonso will respond directly. We ask for one question at a time."
The first voice came quickly from a journalist in the right aisle.
"Coach, five-nil. Was this the best performance of your season?"
Demien didn't shift; he simply leaned into the mic.
"It was a good one. Not the best. Not yet."
Another hand raised, this time from RMC Sport.
"Did Alonso's debut surprise you?"
Xabi glanced sideways, but Demien didn't look at him.
"No."
The word hung in the air.
He added, "Players who know what they're doing don't need time; they need rhythm."
Next came the shuffle of chairs as Marca's correspondent stood, adjusting his glasses before speaking in Spanish. The translator leaned toward Xabi as the question was asked.
"Mister Alonso, did the pace of Ligue 1 catch you off guard?"
Xabi listened, his hands laced together, then answered in clipped Castilian.
"No. It's fast, yes, but clean. Fewer fouls, more ideas."
The translator captured the tone and delivered it clearly in French, prompting a few nods around the room.
A follow-up question, now in French: "Do you feel like you'll become a guaranteed starter under Laurent?"
The translator bridged again. Xabi paused, tilting his head slightly before responding.
"No one guarantees a starting role. If I'm sharp, I play. If not, someone else will."
Another shuffle in the room, then the L'Équipe reporter spoke up.
"Coach, you now have Alonso, D'Alessandro, and Bernardi. One has to sit. What happens then?"
Demien addressed the question directly.
"They learn."
He didn't elaborate, allowing the statement to stand without room for interpretation.
Stone was about to move on, but another voice interrupted.
"Would you consider playing all three together?"
Demien finally reached for the bottle, opened it, but didn't drink.
"We don't build teams to fit names; we build names that fit the team. If it works, it works."
A pause, followed by a glance toward the Marca representative.
"And if it doesn't, we change it."
Stone stepped in, wrapping up with the standard: "Last two."
A younger voice, hesitant this time, asked,
"Coach—there was a moment yesterday when Alonso and D'Alessandro overlapped in the final third. It looked improvised. Was that planned?"
Demien looked down for a moment, then back up.
"We train patterns, but patterns aren't plans; they're habits. Yesterday, they got it right. That's their job."
One final hand. A local reporter.
"Are you building around them?"
Demien stood.
"No," he said.
Then nodded toward the door. "We build ahead."
He didn't wait for applause or silence. Just walked off.
Xabi followed, quiet steps. Translator behind him, head slightly bowed like the answers had weighed more than expected.
Stone stayed behind to field the wrap-ups.
Demien didn't ask how it went. He already knew.
By the time they reached La Turbie, the parking lot was already thinning out. The internationals hadn't left all at once—some were still in tracksuits, bags half-zipped, waiting for federations to finalize pickups or get them on the next train to the airport. But most were gone.
Xabi had flown out early. Morientes too—quiet handshake with Michel, one nod toward the staff. Giuly left last, walking backward toward his car, still joking with one of the youth keepers. It was just noise now. Hollowed-out. Half-empty.
Demien stepped through the glass door of the facility and didn't slow down.
Michel met him in the hallway.
"That's the last of them. Sylva's flight's tomorrow—Senegal wants him a day later."
Demien nodded. "Let him stretch light today. Nothing more."
They crossed into the outer corridor that overlooked the training pitch. Seven names on the whiteboard. Only two regular starters. Biancarelli was already out in gloves, crouched low, bouncing a ball between his palms like he'd been waiting since dawn.
"Only five are fit," Michel said. "And the rest are either green or just here for numbers."
One final question from a local reporter:
"Are you building around them?"
Demien stood.
"No," he replied, nodding toward the door. "We build ahead."
He didn't wait for applause or silence; he simply walked off.
Xabi followed, his steps quiet. The translator trailed behind him, head slightly bowed, as if the answers had weighed more than expected.
Stone stayed behind to handle the wrap-ups.
Demien didn't ask how it went; he already knew.
By the time they reached La Turbie, the parking lot was thinning out. The internationals hadn't left all at once—some were still in tracksuits, bags half-zipped, waiting for their federations to finalize pickups or to get them on the next train to the airport. But most were gone.
Xabi had flown out early, as had Morientes—who exchanged a quiet handshake with Michel and a nod toward the staff. Giuly left last, walking backward toward his car while still joking with one of the youth keepers. It was just noise now—hollowed out and half-empty.
Demien stepped through the glass door of the facility and didn't slow down.
Michel met him in the hallway.
"That's the last of them. Sylva's flight is tomorrow—Senegal wants him a day later."
Demien nodded. "Let him stretch lightly today. Nothing more."
They crossed into the outer corridor that overlooked the training pitch. Seven names were on the whiteboard, but only two were regular starters. Biancarelli was already out in gloves, crouched low, bouncing a ball between his palms as if he'd been waiting since dawn.
"Only five are fit," Michel said. "The rest are either inexperienced or just here for numbers."
"Good," Demien said.
The session started without a whistle—no full buildup, no staged rondos.
Just passing lanes and movement, compact drills, one grid, and no noise.
Julien Rodriguez took the armband, not because he was asked to, but because no one else moved first. He barked commands without turning around. Ibarra joined from the right, tightening angles and calling out second runners, even though no one pressed him.
Demien stayed by the fence, arms folded.
Plašil started the first five-a-side at a sprint. His first touch was clean, and his voice was louder than usual—not shouting, just constant. Adjustments, timing calls, little things—like someone had waited for the room to go quiet before speaking.
El Fakiri moved smoothly between lines, holding space instead of chasing it. Adebayor wasn't there, and D'Alessandro was in Buenos Aires. Giuly and Rothen had already texted from the station.
Demien kept watching.
Maurice-Belay tried to beat two defenders on the dribble, lost the ball, then jogged back with his head tilted toward the ground. On the next play, he rushed his touch again.
Demien stepped forward.
"Stop."
The ball froze.
"Every time you chase the wrong ball," he said without raising his voice, "you miss the right one."
Maurice-Belay nodded—not embarrassed, just resetting. The ball rolled back in.
After thirty more minutes, Michel blew the final whistle himself. He mentioned cooldowns and recovery sessions, but Demien had already started walking.
Inside, in the small tactics room off the physio wing, the whiteboard was still up from Sunday. He wiped it clean without looking at it and didn't say a word.
Michel joined a minute later with a coffee in each hand, setting one down near the edge.
"Plašil's still out there," he said. "Running sprints."
"He's ready."
"You want him holding midfield?"
"I want him to know why he is."
Michel sat down across from him.
"They're saying Alonso's deal might be made permanent," he said.
Demien didn't flinch.
"Let them."
Michel passed him the folded article from the press table.
He didn't read it; he just slipped it into his coat pocket and stood.
"The window's closed," Michel said. "We have what we have."
Demien looked out the glass panel as Plašil jogged alone, taking long strides with no wasted motion.
"Good," he said. "Now we see what that means."
The sun was starting to slip below the far fence line. There were no planes overhead, no players yelling—just the sound of boots brushing against the grass.
Nothing left to teach in that moment, but plenty left to test.