England vs. Belgium | UEFA Euro 2016 Semifinal
July 1, 2016 | Lyon, France – 8:00 PM
Live on BBC One
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The Stade de Lyon was packed to the edges, roaring under the floodlights.
The anthems were done. The flags lowered. The last echoes of song still hung in the air.
And now the two teams stood already lined up on the pitch, the noise crashing over them in a mix of cheers, boos, and restless expectation.
Guy Mowbray welcomed viewers in his usual clipped rhythm. "Wherever you're watching from tonight… this is it. The semifinal. England. Belgium. One of these teams goes to Paris."
The camera swept across the grass. England in white. Belgium in red.
Twenty-two players lined up. One ball on the centre spot. And millions of hearts on the edge. With millions of dreams on the line.
Beside him, Alan Shearer cut through the static. "You can feel it in the air, Guy. This isn't just any semifinal. This is one of those nights."
Mowbray barely paused. "Belgium won the toss. They'll kick us off, right to left on your screen. And they'll need every ounce of quality they've got."
Shearer didn't sugarcoat it. "England have looked like a machine all tournament. 14 goals scored with zero loses or draws having just beaten France, the second favorites to win the tournament."
The camera drifted across the pitch…
until it found the one face no one could ignore."
Tristan Hale.
"Belgium knows what's coming," Shearer said, you could hear his happiness through the screen. "Knowing doesn't mean stopping it."
The referee checked his watch.
Blew once.
And the ball moved.
The semifinal was underway.
Belgium tried to settle.
Hazard dropped deep. Tielemans opened his body to receive. The passes were neat, crisp, but cautious like walking on glass. The midfield triangle rotated again, De Bruyne circling into space just behind Tristan.
And that's when the crowd reacted.
Tristan followed him.
Not with a sprint. Not with a lunge. Just a steady, fluid jog, matching stride for stride, shoulder angled low, one eye on the ball and the other locked on De Bruyne.
The Belgian crowd went still.
A collective "Oh no..."
Alan Shearer let out a low breath as he watched Tristan track Kevin step for step. "You've got to feel for him, Guy. I wouldn't want to be in that position, your biggest match, and the better version of you is glued to your shoulder, reading every move before you make it."
Guy Mowbray nodded, eyes fixed on the midfield. "Tristan's done this to him in the Premier League, and it looks no different here. Kevin's trying to find space… but wherever he turns, number twenty two is already there."
Shearer added, "It's brutal. The pressure alone would crack most players."
De Bruyne glanced over his shoulder just once and shifted the ball wide to Meunier to reset.
Too late.
Tristan read it early, exploded forward, and cut off the passing lane before it ever opened. The crowd roared as England flooded forward, a turnover in transition, their bread and butter.
Alli picked it up instantly and drove. The pitch tilted. Kane peeled off the shoulder. Vardy darted wide.
Belgium backpedaled. Their shape fractured before the move even finished. Alli hesitated, cut inside, then clipped it short to Henderson. One touch. Edge of the box.
Shot blocked.
But the damage was done.
Momentum shifted.
And back in Belgium's half, Kevin De Bruyne threw up his hands.
Hazard ignored him. Demanded the ball instead. The arms stayed raised. Words started flying.
Shearer pointed it out immediately. "They're arguing already. Hazard wants one thing, Kevin wants another."
Guy Mowbray nodded. "They're not on the same page. And against this England side? One bad pass is all it takes."
Belgium restarted.
Another possession.
Another probe.
But now the crowd grew restless. Passes that should've come didn't. Movements staggered, not synced.
Tristan tracked Kevin again.
Like a ghost in his pocket.
De Bruyne tried to ghost left.
Tristan mirrored.
He tried to drift right.
Tristan was still there.
Not fouling. Not diving in.
Just… there.
Reading everything. Watching. Waiting.
Shearer didn't hide the grin in his voice. "The difference between France and Belgium? France had Kanté. And even then, Tristan broke through."
Guy Mowbray followed up. "Belgium have Kevin. A world-class midfielder but he's facing a man who seems to be his kryptonite. Kevin has modeled his game after Tristan. Perhaps he's regretting it if he hasn't before."
By minute six, Belgium had completed 42 passes.
None of them in the final third.
None of them through Tristan.
And England? They were growing louder with every press, every chase, every inch they won back.
The players felt it.
So did the bench.
And inside Belgium's lines, cracks had already started to show.
By the ninth minute, Belgium had barely touched England's box. The passes still came, but slower now more hesitant. Not one player wanted to be the one to give it away.
And then England struck.
Tristan baited Kevin again, sagging a step off just long enough to invite the ball through. Tielemans took the trap. Pass inside.
Too easy.
Tristan snapped forward and won it clean.
The entire stadium lurched.
He didn't pause. Didn't look. Just flicked it with the outside of his boot, one touch onto Kane's path.
Kane turned, broke free, and fed Vardy with a slicing diagonal. Vardy burst between the Belgian center backs, crowd roaring like a thunderclap behind him.
One touch.
Shot.
Courtois got down fast.
But not fast enough to catch the rebound.
Dele Alli arrived like a missile.
Smashed it first time—
—just wide.
"England nearly up one-nil!" roared Guy Mowbray. "Dele Alli inches from burying it!"
On the bench, the camera found the face of Belgium's manager sweating. He turned to his staff, muttered something under his breath.
The assistant coach leaned forward. "Do we pull Kevin deeper?"
"No," another said. "That just brings Tristan further up. It's a trap."
And back on the pitch, it was getting worse.
Hazard dropped again to demand the ball. Ignored Kevin completely. Fired it forward to Lukaku.
Tristan intercepted it again. Clean. Barely broke stride.
Mowbray caught the moment. "That's twice now. Hazard and De Bruyne not speaking. And Tristan's feasting off it."
Belgium's entire left side looked unbalanced now. The crowd felt it. England's press doubled down. Kane forced Vermaelen long. Walker won the header. Another turnover.
Now the ball fell to Vardy. He didn't wait. Saw Tristan and flicked it on instantly.
Tristan let it bounce once. Twice. Then unleashed a volley from distance.
The net didn't ripple. But the sound it made crashing into the side netting nearly sent half the crowd into cardiac arrest.
"OH, MY WORD," Shearer shouted.
"That would've been goal of the tournament," Guy gasped.
The camera cut again. This time to Kevin De Bruyne.
Hands on hips. Mouth slightly open. Looking at Tristan like he was watching the sun rise over a funeral.
The broadcast cut to Belgium's bench again. Players muttering. One slammed a water bottle.
Inside the huddle, their coaching staff were already flipping through tactical sheets.
They needed a miracle. Or they needed halftime.
Whichever came first.
.
Somewhere high above the noise and chaos of Lyon, the television flickered in the corner of a hotel suite.
Barbara sat cross-legged on the couch, oversized England jersey drowning her frame, remote tucked between her knees. Beside her, Julia perched at the edge of the armrest, feet flat on the floor, eyes sharp on the screen.
"That should've gone in," Julia muttered.
"Dele hit it clean," Barbara said, voice softer. "But he leaned a bit too far."
The hotel lights were dimmed. Biscuit was curled up in a ball near the coffee table, tail thumping lazily every time the commentators shouted Tristan's name. The little dog didn't understand football, but she'd learned quickly who made her humans yell.
Barbara hadn't made the trip to Lyon. She wasn't feeling her best today and so Julia decided to stay with her whilst Ling went to the game.
The commentators kept up their praise.
"He's in Kevin's head," Alan Shearer was saying. "There's no other explanation for it. That's not just marking, that's dominance."
.
Belgium tried to breathe again around the half-hour mark, nudging the fullbacks higher, Hazard drifting inside, De Bruyne waving frantically for runners. Anything to break the chokehold.
It only made things worse.
Tristan let De Bruyne receive this time.
Just once.
A tremor went through the Belgian end — not excitement, but dread.
De Bruyne turned—
—and Tristan erased the window.
Not a tackle.
A correction.
A shoulder nudge. A toe flick. The ball spilled loose like it had been waiting for permission.
Henderson was already on it.
One touch.
Forward.
The entire stadium lifted.
"Alli's gone—he's GONE," Guy Mowbray barked as England surged. "And look at the movement!"
Alli dragged Vermaelen out of position.
Kane dropped deep, pulling Alderweireld with him like gravity.
Vardy stayed high, a blade pressed against the backline.
And Tristan?
He didn't chase the play.
He materialised in it.
Henderson fed him at the edge of the final third.
One touch to settle.
Second to glide into space Belgium had vacated mid-argument.
No foul.
Tristan lifted his head.
Saw the whole board.
"Danger here," Shearer muttered, almost under his breath. "This is where he kills you."
Tristan released it wide to Walker and ghosted into the box, unseen, untracked.
Walker whipped it low.
Courtois shifted, weight wrong, angle wrong—
The ball zipped across the six-yard box—
Kane stepped over it—
—Vardy didn't.
One swing.
Top of the net.
The stadium detonated.
"GOOOOOAL! ENGLAND STRIKE FIRST!" Mowbray roared, nearly drowning beneath the eruption. "AND THEY RIPPED BELGIUM OPEN!"
Shearer's laugh cracked through the noise. "That's ruthless! Belgium didn't just lose possession, they lost the plot! What a goal!"
"You can't argue, you can't hesitate, not against this England!"
Vardy wheeled away, screaming into the Lyon night with the rest of the squad.
.
De Bruyne stared at the grass with a bitter smile on his face.
Hazard didn't look at anyone.
On the Belgian bench, the manager sank back into his seat.
The camera found the scoreboard.
England 1 — Belgium 0
As halftime approached, the noise never dropped.
Belgium played the minutes out carefully now.
England didn't chase.
They waited.
And when the referee finally raised the whistle—
Guy Mowbray let the eruption fade into a rolling roar, his voice returning like a tide.
"England go into halftime with the advantage… and they've earned every inch of it."
Alan Shearer took the handoff.
"Forty-five minutes away from the final. Forty-five minutes from history."
"Can football finally come home?"
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Sorry about the delay, it's currently peak tax season is here, so January and February are brutal for me. I can't write most days during this stretch.
There will be a chapter tomorrow as this game is pretty short and not that important.
Besides that, check out my other stories, join Discord and Pa@tron if you are interested.
Have a good day.