While Euro 2016 raged on across stadiums in France, another kind of excitement took over the internet. Fans weren't just glued to the matches, they were scrolling through Twitter threads, Reddit arguments, and YouTube reaction videos.
Fans naturally wanted to talk about the games with each other. The tournament didn't just happen on the pitch. And among the thousands of voices rising from the noise, one channel suddenly caught fire: Maqwell.
Maxwell was seventeen years old, Vietnamese-American. Broadcasting straight out of a cluttered bedroom in New York City. His fast-talking, meme-heavy breakdowns of each matchday were gaining steam but this was the one that exploded. The video that sent him viral.
The video that sent him into the algorithm's stratosphere:
[ The Group Stage Was INSANE ] – Maqwell - (A/N: One of my favorite YouTubers, seriously, check him out if you like football content.)
What made the video go viral wasn't fancy editing or studio-level production. It was him, his humor, his delivery, the way he talked like every fan screaming at their TV.
.
The video opened with a jarring pop.
The camera jerked sideways. Something metal smacked into the wall off-screen.
A dented trash can rolled across the floor like it had been punted by God himself, the lid rattling with every spin.
"THAT'S WHAT TRISTAN DID TO NORTHERN IRELAND!"
The shot snapped into place.
Maqwell was now centered in frame in his bedroom, breath slightly uneven, cheeks flushed like he'd just gone twelve rounds with the air. An Arsenal flag drooped behind him. His hair was messy, sticking up on one side like he'd run his hands through it fifty times.
"God damn," he breathed out, collapsing into his chair. He leaned back, hands clasped over his head, eyes blown wide like he'd just witnessed a televised execution. "Four games. Four bodies. Tristan walked into this tournament and decided he was gonna commit state-sanctioned football murder every time he stepped on the pitch."
He pointed at the camera like it personally offended him.
"And the wildest part? I had people messaging me like, 'Yo, Maqwell, Tristan might slow down. He can't keep that up.'
Bro.
He just came off the greatest season I've ever seen in my life. Eighty goals, eighty assists, undefeated in all competitions, four trophies and he did that at Leicester City of all clubs."
Maqwell leaned forward, eyebrows high, voice rising.
"Like, did you genuinely think TRISTAN HALE, of all players was gonna slow down at the EUROs? He wants to win the whole thing. For England. For the Ballon d'Or. For the narrative. He just met the fucking Queen. This is the dude who, because he wanted to impress Barbara, dropped three goals and three assists on Manchester United at eighteen. Or nineteen. I don't even remember, he was still a child either way."
He pointed both hands at the camera.
"He's insane. Once Tristan starts bullying you on a pitch, he doesn't stop. I KNOW THIS AS AN ARSENAL FAN. I've lived through it. We all have. And honestly? We still don't even have it as bad as Newcastle and United fans. God bless those poor souls."
He paused, blinking like even he couldn't believe what he'd just said.
"The fact I can say '80 goals and 80 assists' with a straight face and not even question it? That's actually ridiculous. I don't remember the exact numbers but they're close enough, and the fact they sound believable is the real crime. Anyway…"
"I saw a guy on Twitter say Tristan plays like he bought DLC nobody else has access to. And honestly? That might be the most accurate description of this entire tournament."
He finally sat up, rubbing his face like he was trying to wipe away memories of Tristan bullying Arsenal.
"People are still arguing about who the best player in the world is," he said, lifting a hand.
"Messi? Love him to death but we all know how he is in international tournaments. Man starts looking like he booked his flight home early."
He raised the other hand.
"Ronaldo? Throwing tantrums every time he doesn't get a penalty. Having one of the worst Euros I've ever seen from him. Shocking doesn't even cover it."
Then he dropped both hands and stared into the camera, eyes flat with parental disappointment.
"Meanwhile, England's captain is out here committing war crimes from thirty yards."
He gestured vaguely off-screen. "There are salt mines forming in Portugal and a few other countries. People losing their minds, their morals, their whole personality because their 'GOAT' isn't doing what Tristan's doing."
He shrugged. "But me? I'm chill. I support Vietnam. I don't have a dog in this fight. I'm just here for the football."
He leaned forward, lowering his voice like a confession.
"You know how bad that is? I tried watching our match against Malaysia. Our goalkeeper jumped before the penalty was taken. Our striker's first touch sent the ball back to Cambodia. I counted seven back-passes in one play and our coach lit a cigarette on live TV. A kid in the crowd was eating instant noodles and crying."
He sighed sharply, throwing his hands up.
"I've already hit rock bottom. Nothing phases me anymore."
Then he pointed at the floor like marking a crime scene.
"Which is why I can sit here, right now, and talk about this group stage bloodbath with zero bias. No tears. No coping. Just facts."
A slow smiled fomed.
"You ready?"
He leaned closer. "Let's talk about it."
"Alright, since we're talking about the group stage, I think it's best we go in order. So let's talk about Group A… or as I like to call it: 'France and Friends.'"
He leaned closer to the mic, lowering his voice like a late-night DJ.
"France topped the group. No shock there. They're the hosts, one of the favorites, the nation with more talent than sense. They came in with Pogba, Griezmann, Payet, Kanté. Helll, their bench could probably qualify for the semis on its own."
"But do you know who really carried them through that group?"
He raised a single finger like a priest about to deliver a sermon.
"Dimitri. Freakin'. Payet."
He shook his head, eyes wide. "This man turned into Prime Ronaldinho for two weeks. Scored bangers, created chaos, made defenders question their career choices. If Tristan wasn't terrorizing Europe, Payet would've been the breakout star of this tournament."
Maqwell leaned back, suddenly solemn.
"Pour one out for Romania. They showed up, played football, and left with absolutely nothing but emotional trauma and sore calves. Albania though…"
He paused.
"I don't know what possessed Albania in that third match. They looked like a team that suddenly remembered they were playing for their country and not running late for their cousin's wedding. Respect. But it was too late."
He shrugged, hands up.
"Switzerland? Listen. Y'all are the definition of decent. Not bad. Not great. Just… there. Shaqiri looked like he was trying to do everything by himself. I wouldn't be surprised if he made the pre-match sandwiches too."
He held up an invisible trophy.
"The 'Most Mid But Still Qualified' award goes to you. Congratulations."
He clicked his tongue.
"But yeah. France first. Switzerland second. Albania got their one W. Romania? They got humbled by physics."
"And now, Group B aka The Tristan Live Torture Exhibition, sponsored by England."
"This… this was just Tristan saying 'fuck you,' 'fuck you,' and 'fuck you especially' to every team in sight. Like he walked into this group and took it personally."
He leaned toward the camera, hands clasped like he was mid-prayer.
"Tristan, please. There are kids watching. Players have families, bro."
Cut to an edited graphic:
Group B – Final Table
🥇 1st – England (9 pts)
🥈 2nd – Wales (6 pts)
🥉 3rd – Slovakia (4 pts)
❌ 4th – Russia (0 pts)
Back to Maqwell, eyes wide like he'd just done the math again.
"Alright, real quick. Three games. Three goals. Three assists. Six direct contributions in the group stage alone.
And that's not even counting the war crime he committed in the Round of 16, a hat-trick in under thirty minutes. THIRTY. Man, I've had Uber Eats orders take longer than that."
He threw his hands up, exasperated.
"I don't know what Northern Ireland did to piss him off. Maybe someone called him average. Maybe someone looked at Barbara the wrong way. I rewatched that match three times trying to figure out what set him off."
The screen cut to a freeze-frame of Tristan walking out of the tunnel, dead-faced, eyes locked straight ahead.
"Look at him. LOOK at his face. That is not normal Tristan. That's not the guy who smiles after a nutmeg or laughs with Vardy after an assist. That's not the dude waving at fans mid-match like he's on a parade float.
That man looked like he was walking out for a World Cup Final. Like someone told him if he didn't score a hat-trick, Biscuit was getting kidnapped."
He pinched the bridge of his nose, shaking his head slowly.
"Bro looked paranoid. Possessed. That was Finals Tristan. FA Cup vs Arsenal Tristan.
And you know that version only shows up when he decides it's time to erase legacies. The Tristan you see when he's tired of debates and wants to cement the whole 'whose the best player' conversation on the spot."
He sat back and spread his hands.
"But it's not just him, right? Yeah, England are riding Tristan like he's a Prime Charizard, but the young guns are balling too. Well the younger ones. England's starters are pretty young across the board… besides Vardy bumping the average age up by like fifteen years."
He held up a finger.
"Rashford? Electric in every cameo."
Another finger.
"Sterling? Scored a banger last match."
Then he grinned, genuinely, warmly.
"And Rooney? Oh my God."
He leaned back with a smile spreading over his face, the kind you get when talking about a player you grew up watching.
"Wayne Rooney is having a glorious Euros."
"Man's playing like he's back in his prime. It's enough to make a grown man cry. Especially after watching Leicester destroy United over and over this season seeing Rooney thriving again?
I'm just happy for him, even if he's coming off the bench. And honestly, Roy made the right call. As a supersub, he's perfect. He's spraying passes, scoring when needed, leading the kids. I don't know if it's the beard or the dad strength, but whatever it is, it's working. One goal, two assists off the bench. Props to him."
He flicked through the highlights, the glow of the screen reflecting off his glasses.
"Alright, onto the other countries.
Wales were solid. Bale did his thing, obviously but man, it hurt seeing my childhood hero go up against Tristan like that. There was nothing he could've done. England were a final boss."
Click.
"Slovakia were decent."
Click.
Then the Russia highlights appeared. Maqwell just stared at the screen, completely blank.
"…You guys got swept like a side quest. I'm sorry. I can't even defend that. That wasn't a group-stage performance — that was a TED Talk on how to pack your bags early."
He threw up his hands.
"Back to the lobby. Try again next tournament. Anyway not much to talk about in this group stage"
But then Maqwell leaned forward, smile gone, voice dropping into something sober.
"Before we move on to Group C… there's something we have to talk about."
Cut to an image of the Stade Vélodrome, flares burning red in the night, riot police forming a wall, debris scattered across the stands. The whole mood shifted.
"Twenty English fans and over a dozen Russian supporters were hospitalized after the England–Russia match. Some were in serious condition. It was disgusting.This game's supposed to be about passion and love."
He tapped his chest softly, frustration tightening his expression.
"And Tristan said it better than I ever could."
Cut to Tristan's quote on the screen during the press conference.
"This isn't how it's supposed to be. The Euros are meant to bring people together, to celebrate football, culture, pride. It's meant to be loud and joyful. Not drunk and violent.
There's nothing wrong with drinking. Nothing wrong with chanting, singing, painting your face, jumping on tables when we score. We love that. We live off that energy.
But don't be the reason we get sent home. Don't be the reason families are scared to bring their kids to matches. Don't be the reason another player's mum has to call to make sure she's safe.
We can't play for you if you don't show up for us the right way.
I'm begging you. Don't ruin this."
Back to Maqwell, eyes serious behind the humor for once.
"Facts. That's your captain. That's leadership. Don't ruin it for everyone else. Football hooliganism has no place in this beautiful game. None."
He let that message before continuing, his mood switching like a flipped switch.
"Alright. That's Group B wrapped. Nothing else to say except that Tristan basically ended the hopes and dreams of entire countries in his first Euros."
.
"Finally, we made it to Group F." He glanced off-screen, eyebrows jumping. "Bro… I just checked the timer. I've been recording for like thirty minutes and didn't even notice. Anyway this group was stupid."
He leaned in, shaking his head slowly, like he was trying to process a traumatic event.
"Not stupid like 'bad.' Stupid like… what the hell actually happened here?"
Cut to the graphic:
Group F – Final Standings
🥇 Hungary – 5 points
🥈 Iceland – 5 points
🥉 Portugal – 3 points
❌ Austria – 1 point
Back to Maqwell.
"Just look at this table, man. There's a lot to unpack here. Nobody on planet Earth would've believed you if you said Iceland were finishing above Portugal."
"This was supposed to be Portugal's group. Look at the teams! On paper, they're miles stronger. It's Ronaldo. He literally just won the Champions League. Had the second-best season on the planet after Tristan — and that gap wasn't even close."
He raised both hands dramatically.
"Everyone said this tournament would decide the Ballon d'Or. A little 'old generation vs new generation' showdown."
Then he swept his arms out like presenting a totaled car on the side of a highway.
"But instead… it's been a disaster. A tragic, slow-motion, seatbelt-off, upside-down rollover disaster. Ronaldo's fighting for his life while Tristan's out here inventing new crimes every match."
He leaned back, exasperated.
"Like yes, Ronaldo's under pressure… but not even close to what Tristan's carrying. He's the Crown Jewel of England. The guy literally has the Queen and half the politicians begging him to bring football home. He's twenty-one, captain of his country, and he's got more expectations on him than anyone in this tournament."
He shook his head.
"England's been crying out for hope for decades. And now that hope is here and performing like this."
He sighed.
"That's enough about who is carrying more pressure and expectations from their countries. Let's look at the facts."
Portugal's Group Stage Results:
1–1 vs Iceland
0–0 vs Austria
3–3 vs Hungary
Maqwell dragged a hand down his face.
"THREE. DRAWS. That is three more draws than a team trying to win the Euros should ever have."
Portugal's Group Stage Record:
• 3 points
• 0 goal difference
• 3 goals scored
• Barely qualified as a third-place charity case
"They got through with vibes, luck, and a small mathematical miracle."
He pulled up the match stats, looking personally offended.
"Match one vs Iceland? Zero goals, zero assists, ten shots, zero on target. Missed a sitter at the end.
Match two? Another ten shots, missed a penalty, hit the post, no goals. I'm losing hair just thinking about it."
He slapped the table once.
"Then finally — finally — against Hungary, he wakes up."
Maqwell mimed violently shaking someone out of a coma.
"Two goals. First one? Clean left-footed volley. Second? That backheel flick, listen, that was ice cold. I'll give credit. That was amazing. And he assists Nani. For ONE match, he looked like the Ronaldo we knew. That looked like the Ronaldo who just won the Champions League."
"For ninety minutes."
Then his face fell completely flat.
"And then? Croatia."
Cue graphic: Round of 16 – Portugal vs Croatia
He stared into the camera like he was delivering a eulogy.
"Zero goals. Zero assists. One hundred and seventeen minutes of cardio… and then the winner comes from Quaresma."
He put a hand over his heart, wounded.
"Quaresma saved you. Do you hear me? Ricardo. Quaresma. Saved Cristiano Ronaldo in a knockout match. In 2016. I didn't even know Quaresma still had a locker. I thought he was doing YouTube tutorials."
He leaned closer, disappointment radiating off him.
"Cristiano, I say this with love… but you have handed the Ballon d'Or to Tristan like it's a gift basket. Like yes Tristan was the clear but you had a chance should you had an amazing Euro. And with Real Madrid's PR and backing you had a real shot but now it's gone. Done. He's chokeholding that trophy. Even if he doesn't win the Euros, it's his. You're trying to catch up with a flashlight while he's out here doing things with a football that violate the Geneva Conventions."
He sighed, long and defeated.
"I expected more from my multiple-time Ballon d'Or winner, man. This… this ain't it."
"And look, to be fair? Massive props to Hungary and Iceland. They punched so far above their pay grade they needed oxygen masks. They came to fight."
Cut to highlights of Icelandic fans thunder-clapping, Hungarian players celebrating like Christmas came early.
"Iceland? Smallest country in the tournament. No superstars. No ego. Just long throws, Viking energy, and the purest working-class football you'll ever see. They were unbelievable."
He shifted to the next clip.
"Hungary? Bro, their fans were partying like they just escaped football prison. And the team backed it up. They played out of their minds."
Then he deadpanned at the camera.
"Austria?
…I got nothing. That was just sad. I'm sorry."
He exhaled hard, finally dropping into his chair with his hands behind his head.
"Well. That's Group F."
He leaned forward, staring straight into the lens.
"And that's everything. We survived the group stage. Barely. My voice is gone. My sleep schedule is in shambles. My editor is crying in a corner. But we made it."
He pointed at the screen.
"If you want more for the Round of 16 and trust me, some of these knockouts were NASTY, let me know. Like the video. Subscribe. Comment. Yell at me. I don't care. Just don't be weird."
He flashed a peace sign.
"And I'll see you next time."
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