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Chapter 294: Wales Part 1
🕑 Added 2025-11-16 00:53:19 +0000 UTCJune 14, 2016 | BBC One – The Matchday Breakdown
The studio lights were low and moody, casting soft shadows over the wide desk and glowing Euro 2016 graphics behind the panel. Every face around the table was tight with anticipation, eyes filled with hope.
At the center of the desk, Gary Lineker leaned slightly forward, fingers resting beside a neat stack of untouched cue cards. To his right was Rio Ferdinand, next to him was Jamie Carragher. To Lineker’s left was Paul Scholes and beside him was the great Thierry Henry.
Gary spoke first.
“To anyone watching outside the UK, this might feel like just another group-stage match. But England vs Wales?” His brow arched slightly. “There’s always more under the surface. Not quite Scotland levels of blood and thunder, but don’t let that fool you, this one matters.”
Rio exhaled, leaning back in his chair. “Mate, it’s always been hostile. Proper edge to it. Every time you touch the ball you’re getting clattered. Every tackle’s a statement. It’s like walking into a derby, the pubs are packed, the fans from both sides are angry, they just wanna see their own side dominate.
Jamie grinned. “I remember Cardiff, 2005. Thought it’d be a nice day out. Got kicked to bits. Savage flying into everything, crowd right on your back. Wales know they’ve gotta make it ugly.”
Paul gave a dry smile, eyes still on the match footage rolling behind them. “You’re the one who made it ugly. You two lumped everything that moved. I just tried to pass it.”
Rio snorted. “Tried. That’s the key word.”
Jamie cut in with a smirk. “Ey, don’t start this again.”
Paul chuckled, unbothered. “We beat ‘em, didn’t we?”
“Yeah, 1–0, and you came off with a stubbed toe,” Rio shot back.
Gary raised his hands like a referee. “Alright, alright. Let’s focus here, this Wales side, right now. They’re not just scrappers compared to before. They’ve got quality.”
Thierry shifted in his chair and gave a wry look down the table. “I don’t know why I’m here,” he said, eyes wide with mock offense. “Five minutes in and I feel like I’ve crashed a family argument.”
Laughter broke out instantly.
Rio leaned over, grinning. “You’re the neutral, mate. We need someone to stop Carragher swinging punches in the analysis segment.”
Jamie pointed at himself. “What, me? I’m the voice of reason here!”
“Please,” Scholes muttered, sipping his coffee without looking up. “The only thing you reason with is a yellow card.”
Gary shook his head, chuckling, before glancing toward Thierry. “Go on then, let’s hear from the Frenchman in the room. What do you see when you look at this England - Wales match?”
Thierry leaned forward. “Wales will sit deep. They’ll fight for every inch, frustrate England, try to isolate the stars. And England — if they’re smart — won’t panic. Because the longer the game goes, the more control they’ll get which I do see happening. The last two years, I have never seen Tristan panic.”
He paused just long enough for the cameras to focus in. “But this match? It’s not about tactics.” He tapped the table once. “It’s about the headline.”
The studio quieted slightly.
Rio nodded. “Tristan vs. Bale.”
Jamie leaned in. “That’s the one everyone wants.”
Scholes let out a small breath. “It’s the one the Wales players are dreading.”
Gary folded his hands. “They’ve never faced each other before. Not in league, not in Europe, not even in youth football. It’s the first time and it’s coming on the biggest stage.”
Rio spoke first. “Bale’s been Wales’ hero for years. Free kicks, counterattacks, the lot. But now he’s staring down the best player on the planet. A player thats better than everything that makes a player like Bale so special with extra skills just for the fun of it.”
Jamie cut in. “You know what I wanna see? A footrace. Bale at full tilt, Tristan chasing or flipping it the other way. You know those moments where the whole stadium stands up?”
Scholes nodded. “If Bale has space, he’ll run. But Tristan doesn’t need space. That’s the scary part. He just decides when to hit the gear.”
Thierry’s eyes narrowed, voice thoughtful. “Bale is a sprinter, thats his game, his play style but Tristan is different. Tristan has so many different ways he can get past you. That’s what makes him so dangerous.”
Rio tilted his head. “He won’t even go full pace unless he has to. But when he does? It changes the momentum of a whole game because you know you can’t stop it.”
Jamie leaned back with a grin. “Alright then, let’s have it. Bale or Tristan, who’s quicker?”
Paul raised an eyebrow. “Straight line or with the ball?”
Gary smirked. “Let’s say both.”
Rio didn’t have to think much to answer this question. “Tristan. And it’s not even about technique. He’s never had a major injury. No hamstring tears, no ankle knockouts. That man’s running on premium tires, mate, brand new.”
Jamie shrugged. “Yeah but Bale in his prime was terrifying. You remember that Copa final goal? The one where he ran off the pitch, came back, and still beat the fullback?”
Scholes leaned in. “Yeah, that was eight years ago.”
“Ouch,” Jamie winced, pretending to clutch his chest. “Uncalled for.”
Rio laughed. “He’s not wrong though. Bale’s thirty now. Tristan’s twenty-one, fresh, lean, no scar tissue, nothing. Just pure acceleration.”
Thierry nodded slowly. “But it’s not just the body, it’s the brain. Tristan doesn’t use it unless he has to.”
Jamie pointed a finger. “Exactly! That’s why I still lean Bale. Because when Bale runs, he means it. Tristan sometimes I think he’s holding back on purpose which is not a bad thing at all. Like he’s managing his own engine.”
Gary cut in. “That’s what makes the debate interesting. Bale’s top speed might still be freakish, but Tristan’s efficiency and control. You never see him overdo it so he never loses the ball.
Scholes nodded. “He’s saving his career. That’s why he’ll be doing this at thirty-five and still look twenty-five.”
Thierry smiled. “He knows the danger of relying too much on speed. That’s why he built everything else. Vision. Technique. Finishing. Bale was once the fastest player in the world. Tristan… might be the most complete in the history of the game.”
Rio folded his arms. “And he still might be the fastest.”
Carragher grinned, eyes glinting. “Can we get a proper race after the game? Ten meters, shirts off, proper Olympic start?”
“Knowing Tristan,” Scholes said dryly, “he’d win it backwards just to make a point.”
The table laughed again.
Gary leaned back, expression settling into something more serious as footage rolled of Tristan leading the team talk in the tunnel before the Russia match.
“Speed’s fun. But what separates Tristan right now isn’t physical. It’s mental. It’s how composed he is in the chaos. Even with the violence after Russia, even with all the pressure, he made the entire fanbase feel calm again.”
Rio nodded. “That’s what shocked me. It wasn’t a PR move. That speech? That was a captain. That was leadership.”
Jamie glanced up at the screen. “And tomorrow, we’ll see it again. If Wales go up early? I promise you, every eye in that stadium’s turning to number twenty-two.”
Thierry tapped his fingers together. “Wales will bring passion. But England… England have Tristan Hale.”
Gary’s eyes lingered on the footage a moment longer. “Alright. Final thoughts, lads. Prediction time.”
Jamie leaned forward first. “I’ll say it. If England show up the way they did against Russia, keep the tempo, play smart, it’s a easy two-nil job. Bale might get a chance, but I can’t see them holding Tristan for ninety minutes.”
Scholes nodded. “Midfield battle decides it. If Henderson and Danny win that middle third, it opens up space. And once Tristan’s got space? It’s done.”
Rio glanced down the table. “I’m expecting a statement. Three-one England. Tristan scores. And assists. Because that’s just what he does.”
Thierry smiled faintly. “Wales will have their moment. But England? They look different now. Stronger. Tighter. More focused. I’ll go two-one. Tristan scores the winner.”
Gary gave a small nod, shuffling the papers in front of him without reading a word. “We’ll find out tomorrow night.”
Wales Team Hotel – 11:42 PM
The screen glow lit his face in the dark. Gareth Bale lay flat on his back, one hand behind his head, the other scrolling through his feed.
It was quiet—too quiet. Just the distant hum of the hallway aircon and the occasional laugh from the physio room down the corridor.
But his mind? Loud.
Every swipe brought more of the same.
“Tristan’s gonna cook Bale.”
“He’s not ready for that smoke.”
“Wales getting slapped.”
“Speed? Tristan’s got that too now.”
He locked the phone, let it rest on his chest. Everyone was counting him out, not just the England fans but the entire world.
Everyone.
Like he was a washed name off the bench. A ghost of Madrid. A stat in Tristan’s highlight reel.
He sat up, ran both hands down his face, then leaned forward on the bed. He hated this feeling.
Tristan Hale.
That name had been stalking every big headline before the Euros even started as everyone knew he was going to be the toughest opponent.
He’d watched from Spain as the kid broke records like glass. Twenty-one years old and already being called the best in the world. Numbers like a glitch in a video game.
Goals. Assists. Trophies. No flaws. No fear. Nothing to target.
Bale had never seen anything like him.
Not even Messi or Ronaldo are as good as him.
He was supposed to up next, after Ronaldo and Messi. But sadly he never reached the stage for various reasons.He pulled the phone up again. It was all the same no matter the app.
“He’ll rip them apart.”
“Wales ain’t built for this.”
“This is Tristan’s tournament.”
Bale turned off his phone.
No.
Fuck that.
He wasn’t some tourist in this tournament. He wasn’t a warm-up act.
He was Gareth fucking Bale.
And tomorrow night, they’d all remember that.
.
Chapter is around 2k. I wanted to keep writing but I just took my medication so I’m feeling sleepy and I did like the last line so lets just end the chapter here.
Comments
Dafydd Jenkins
I know what’s going to happen but as a Welshman I hope Tristan gets clattered in minute 3😂
Bless
Bale was 27
