Two hours later, after the check-in, the pitch looked completely different. Now, it wasn't just hopefuls and nervous energy. It looked like an organized machine.
Three full-size pitches had been marked and numbered. The zones were divided by cones and whistles cut across the air every few seconds. Coaches in FFF jackets moved from line to line with their clipboards in hand, marking every day pass, every detail and every hesitation.
Yanis had stretched, warmed up, passed in tight triangles with two boys he didn't know, and broken a light sweat under the rising sun. His calves were tight, but his feet were settled.
He had already run through the names in his head—who was standing out, who was talking too much and who was hiding in the background.
He'd been called back to the check-in tent shortly after warm-ups to fix an ID mix-up. That's when they handed him a new bib.
"Numéro dix-neuf," the organizer said, pulling it out of the second crate. "You're with Team Red."
Yanis raised an eyebrow, not because he didn't know the players but because it meant more now. Responsibility, identity and pressure.
He pulled the red bib over his shoulders and adjusted the Velcro at the sides. The black 19 sat boldly across his chest as he clenched and unclenched his fists. Now he had something to carry.
The players were grouped in circles—six teams total, each with eight players. A tall man in FFF gear stepped forward with a whistle hanging around his neck. His voice was loud, clear and rehearsed. This wasn't chaos. This was a structured selection.
And now the man in charge stood in front of them. A tall, square-shouldered coach in full Fédération Française de Football gear with a whistle around his neck and clipboard in hand. His presence filled the air like a referee before a final.
He raised a hand and the players fell silent. "Écoutez bien," he said, scanning them. The voice was clear and not cruel. It was just real.
"There are 56 of you here today. From Marseille, Toulon, Aix, Nîmes and even Montpellier. Some of you were recommended and some showed up from nowhere, but it doesn't matter."
He pointed behind him to the fields. "We will evaluate you in three phases. But make no mistake: only four or five of you will move on."
Yanis's chest tightened—not with fear, but with focus.
"Those four or five," the coach continued, "will be contacted and invited to the final INF trials at Clairefontaine in Paris. That's the level we're talking about and that is not a camp. That's where France builds its future pros."
He looked around again. "If you're here for fun, leave now. If you're here to be seen—make sure you do the work that gets noticed."
Then, he held up three fingers.
"Phase One: Tight-space drills, pressures and passing.
Phase Two: Short games. 5v5, 6v6—movement, quick decisions and two-touch max.
Phase Three: Full-pitch simulation, tactical rotations, transitions and body language."
He let that hang in the air. Then he added, "We're not just looking for talent. We're watching body language, vision, what you do without the ball and how you recover when things go wrong.
This is not a skills contest. It's a test of who you are as a player."
Then, he ordered, "Team Red—pitch 3. Two-touch limit, rotation after six minutes."
Yanis didn't wait to be called again. He was already moving. As he jogged toward pitch 3 with his group, his bib bounced against his chest. The number 19 wasn't heavy, but the name stitched into his team was red, which meant that he was ready to impose a threat.
He didn't know the names of the five other players on his team. He didn't need to and he wasn't there to lead them. He was there to show the scouts what Bellevue looked like when it had a future.
His breath was steady and his vision was wide. One whistle would start it but only five would make it to Clairefontaine. And he planned to be one of the few.
The sharp sound of a coach's whistle cut across the pitch. That was it, the boys were ready to showcase their talent.
Yanis stepped onto the pitch like he belonged there. He had no hesitation or second thoughts. His bib was already soaked at the back from the sun and sweat. His calves were tight, but his legs were springy. He was locked in.
There were six players per side. Two-touch limit. Tight pitch of 25 meters long and 20 wide. The pressure was constant, space was tight and decision time? Less than a second. This wasn't football for flair, this was football for thinkers.
Phase One was designed to test core football intelligence: Scanning, first touch, speed of play, support play and defensive work rate
Each game lasted 6 minutes, then teams rotated. Scouts stood nearby, taking notes silently. They weren't watching for goals—they were watching for decisions.
In the second minute, a loose ball bounced in from midfield and Yanis moved to meet it early and aggressively.
His first touch was with his left foot, a soft cushion inside the boot, just enough to stop its momentum. Then, a sharp diagonal pass into the center to release a teammate.
It was clean and quick. The ball was gone before pressure arrived. No flair and no wasted movement.
One of the coaches glanced down and wrote something. Yanis didn't celebrate and he didn't even smile. He just moved again, into space.
While others tried to show off, dribbling too long and trying stepovers in a two-touch drill, Yanis kept it simple. He was constantly available and played on angles.
He talked just enough—"Back," "Turn," "Switch," short calls that meant everything in a chaotic pitch.
When a teammate lost the ball, Yanis didn't drop his shoulders. He pressed immediately, closing down the ball like a reflex. That's what the scouts cared about. Not show-offs and screamers from 20 yards. They wanted players who made the game flow.
Near the fifth minute, Yanis got a ball near the sideline. A defender rushed in but Yanis didn't panic. He scanned, saw a runner, and released a pass down the channel with the outside of his right foot. It was so smooth, weighted and perfect.
The pass was intercepted at the last second. But the coach watching gave a quiet nod. They saw what he saw and that mattered.
The whistle blew again and the round ended. Six minutes had passed and they played with a high intensity.
Yanis jogged off with his teammates as sweat dripping down his back. No one said anything because everyone was in their own head, wondering: Did I do enough? Did they notice me?
Yanis wasn't sure. But he knew one thing: He hadn't disappeared, he had played with his head up, he had played with intention and he had played the right way.
And the eyes on the sidelines noticed the same.