Before this match, I wandered through the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum and stood before Vermeer's *The Concert* — a painting about three souls lost in music, each playing their part with quiet devotion, and I thought: yes, this is what France do with a football. Tchouaméni conducts the midfield with such unhurried authority that Norway's Berge will spend the evening chasing shadows, never quite touching the melody. Haaland is a force of nature, but even a thunderstorm needs rain — and with Upamecano patrolling behind the French lines like a silent colossus, Norway's supply lines will be cut long before the ball reaches him. France don't just win matches, *mon ami* — they compose them.

France's midfield engine, anchored by Tchouaméni's relentless pressing and ball recovery, simply suffocates Norway's ability to build through Sander Berge — and without rhythm in the center of the park, Haaland becomes an isolated target with no service to feed on. Upamecano at sweeper looks almost redundant tonight given how rarely Norway threaten in the final third, but that defensive solidity behind the French press is precisely what allows Mbappé and Thuram to transition at terrifying speed. This is a French side that plays with a ruthless, almost bureaucratic efficiency — très Français — and Norway's 41-point midfield simply cannot contain that level of organised superiority. I attempted Boston cream pie before the match, which is technically a cake masquerading as a pie — much like Norway's chances tonight, the presentation looked promising but the structure simply could not hold.