Imminent Change V

What transpired next could only be described as an upheaval game. There was no beauty to the Le Havre side, so gone were the grace and elegance they emitted, but a barbaric nature rose to the surface, instead. Every Le Havre player demonstrated their mental fortitude as they moved from a defensive to an offensive structure. The fragile back line, perhaps not fully recovered from the previous match, even had to field a back three due to injuries.

And this was one of the major downsides for the ageing team. There were plenty of leaders in this team, but a lack of genuine quality players hurt their hopes of winning. The director had done a wonderful job over the years, grooming the young talents. However, his long-term plans have to be downsized in order to revive the ship. But Marley could see the benefits of having these veterans, these battle-hardened soldiers, in the team, even if they are only available for the trip to the capital.

The game was electrifying, it was messy, it was unexpected, it was astonishing. But it was a storm, it was a tempest, it was a revolution. Falcone's vision had met its match. The referee found himself blowing his whistle every other minute, doling out yellow cards like candy.

It was the ultimate fracas.

Gamerio was still savouring his goal when he felt a numbing pain down his toe. The towering striker looks down, finding none other than the studs of a Le Havre player firmly planted on his instep. The striker looked back at the linesman with a bewildered look in his eyes, begging for the official's help.

It was too late. Gamerio tumbled on the ground as he grasped his foot in pain. The referee's hand went up, signalling a pause in the match as the official wished to evaluate the extent of the injury. Gamerio lay in agonising pain. But all spectators in Stade Oceane were confused, what had just transpired? The Lorient striker was doing fine just moments ago and now he got injured?

Referee Falcone eyed his assistants as he wondered if they had seen something he had missed. They both shook their head. Falcone eyed Gamerio once more as he snubbed, this crook is clearly faking an injury! Falcone ignored the striker still weeping in pain as he gestured the game to continue, despite the protests from the Lorient players.

Kevin Gamerio eyed the dugout as he signalled to his manager that he was in pain. But despair flooded him as he noticed the manager shaking his head. Gamerio knows too well why he wasn't taken off. There was only a 17-year-old striker whose very presence in the match could seriously harm their attack...

The injury was not only a show of contempt, it was a savage beatdown. Gamerio gritted his teeth as he forced himself back on his feet. There wasn't much use crying about his injury, he wasn't going to have a rest any time soon. The striker jogged into position, each step carrying a pain greater than the last.

Yet just when Gamerio got into position, he felt excruciating pain. The striker eyed the culprit, his heart filled with hatred, and hatred for Le Havre was his first instinct. The striker was certain that it was Le Havre who inflicted the injury. But the whole atmosphere of the match, the injustice and intolerance. It was first Baca, who he certainly did it purposely, stepped on his foot. But now it was Lo Sambou, who elbowed his nose. And the guilt. It had to be Lo Sambou's fault. The striker frowned in rage as he glared at the defender. Gamerio's face reddened as he glared back at Lo Sambou.

What was this?! The Le Havre defenders are targeting him in turns!

~~~

The storm continued as Lorient attempted to play their natural game, with them possessing the ball and trying to carve out chances. However, they were met with clear resistance as each player when receiving the ball was met with swipes of the Le Havre player's leg. And without any form of resistance from the Lorient players, the ball was almost immediately overturned, or they risk an injury.

Le Havre was playing gung-ho instead of football. There were clear examples of this as Lo Sambou received a pass outside the box. Gamerio was not pleased with the blatant disrespect. The striker's frustration was swelling as he prepared for the long, hard battle ahead of him. FC Lorient was clearly not backing down, they were looking to bully their way into the Le Havre goal and even force the referee into giving out a yellow card, or getting a penalty even.

The storm raged on, the sky darkening as the fouls came in thick and fast. Le Havre continued to be utterly dominant and would have probably deserved a goal if not for their reckless play. A foul sent Marama Vahirua to the ground, clutching his ankle in pain as the Le Havre fans roared with approval. Despite being on the pitch for less than 60 minutes, the Tahitian international seemed to have picked up an injury. Lorient fans were mad, mad that their team were being pushed around and humiliated. Lorient seemed to be giving in, defending when they should have looked to attack.

Gamerio eyed the Le Havre defenders, who were being given an inordinate amount of space, clearly a blatant foul. The striker saw that for what it was.

He'd paid his dues, and no amount of aggression would let this mobster get away with what they have committed. The Lorient manager bit his thumb, as he eyed the scrawny teenager sitting on his bench. He cursed himself as he realised he was going to play a teenager. The game had become too physical, even for a professional footballer, he couldn't afford the risk of injuring this young striker, he'd risk losing this player. Christian Gourcuff, the Lorient manager wanted to punch himself. The only reason he decided to bring this player a young striker was to have him experience the atmosphere of a professional match. But never in the seven hells did he expect he would play a 17-year-old at this moment as both of his strikes are maliciously injured.

Manager Gourcuff had complicated feelings as he watched the teenager with a look of nervousness on his face. This stupid team, he wished for nothing more than to see Le Havre get relegated at this moment in his heart.

It was Jamel Ait Ben Idir was he collected the ball at the sideline. The Le Havre right wing-back received a new light of confidence as the 24-year-old grasped the ball tightly with his two hands. The Le Havre fans were whistling profusely, behind his back as he felt the discontent from the supporters. But he faced away from them, not once did he stare at them face to face as they were nothing more than a mere distraction at this moment of time.

The wing-back eyed the players available for his pass, his vision laser-focused to complete the one and only purpose that his manager told him to do: goal, to get a goal.

"And Idir resumes the play with a throw-in."

It was with the vision and ability to read the game that Jean-Michel Lesage found a gap between the defence and midfield of Lorient to receive the throw-in. The player was getting on his age, but experience brings youthfulness. The 31-year-old had lived through moments that he himself would be proud to tell his grandchildren. But for now, the Le Havre forward had a composure to him as the audience questioned if he really is in his 30s. Lesage had been quiet throughout the first half, but he suddenly caught everyone dumbfounded as he did a spin that left the Ciani rooted on the ground.

"LESAGE BEATS HIS MARKERS! WHAT WILL HE DO?! —"

Lesage had played multiple positions throughout his long career. Striker, Attacking Midfielder, Left Winger, Right Winger. He played them throughout his decades of playing professional football. All of this familiarity gave him the wisdom to know exactly what must he do at which area of the pitch.

The veteran's instinct screamed out to him as the striker surged forward. He never overplayed his hand, this attack isn't going to work, the ball is falling on grass, not dirt. But at the edge of his vision, he could faintly distinguish the monstrous presence lurking within the box. It's him. Lesage found him.

"AND HE FLOATS THE BALL TO THE BACK POST!!!"

Imbued with instinct, Lesage let rip with his foot at the foot of the crossbar, it smashed into the corner, perfectly placed. It fell to the waiting Amadou Alassane. The giant didn't waste any time, jostling for position as he wrestled with the Lorient defender to be at the receiving end of the cross. The Le Havre striker, standing at 6ft4, had no trouble picking out the ball on the back post as he waited with nerves, happiness, and glee at the same time. But his joy was turned to naught as he realised the Lorient defender was one step ahead as he headed the ball away before the striker could even get a slither of touch.

"CLEARED BY MARCHAL! That was a promising attacking opportunity!"

The ball loomed over the Lorient goal as the ball was cleared away. But the attack hadn't ended just yet. It was a high ball. With the ball not in possession of either team.

The ball was coming Gamerio's way. But the striker had second doubts as he questioned if he should commit himself to an aerial battle. This hesitance was certainly not helped as he was at the receiving ends of the Le Havre's defenders' "tender care", already receiving serval hits and discreet jabs that escaped the referee's attention.

Gamerio eyed the ball edging closer. But the mere sight of Maxime Baca seemingly stopped his mind from working as the Lorient striker was planted at the spot, allowing the cold-hearted defender to head the ball without contention.

Lanier grinned, they made their opponents too comfortable at Stade Oceane, their home ground. They had to insert some fear in the visitors. They were the underdogs, this wasn't the time and place to play some entertaining football. This is survival of the fittest.