Julien naturally didn't refuse the invitation.
He recognized the speaker immediately—Modoso, the leader of Ultras Bastia, whose gruff voice had become familiar during the club's open training sessions.
Châtaigner had introduced him to this fan organization explaining that they were Bastia's most resolute supporters—the kind of people who bled blue and white, who would mortgage their homes to travel to away matches, who sang until their voices cracked and their throats burned raw.
Even when Bastia had declined all the way to dissolution, when bankruptcy loomed like storm clouds over the Furiani Stadium, these people would have been the ones to give the club its final rites, to ensure that the last song sung would be one of love, not defeat.
Soon enough, Modoso's old Peugeot pulled ahead to lead the way, weaving through the narrow streets toward Terra-Vecchia. Julien had rarely wandered beyond the training ground and his apartment since arriving in Bastia, he was too focused on football to truly absorb the city's essence.
Now, pressed against the passenger window, he took in the sights like a man seeing color for the first time.
The city's historical buildings in front of before him telling stories of Genoese merchants and Corsican rebels. Balconies bloomed with flowers. Ancient cobblestone streets twisted between shutters in shades of ocean blue and sunset orange, while houses with terracotta roofs spoke of centuries of Mediterranean life.
This was Bastia—not just a small Mediterranean city, but a living museum where every corner breathed out history, where the scent of salt air mixed with espresso and where the morning light tinted everything in shades of gold and blue.
It had been a bustling port since ancient times, when Phoenician traders first glimpsed its natural harbor.
Terra-Vecchia, the name of the northern downstream area, literally meant "Old Land" in Corsican.
A few minutes later, Modoso's car shuddered to a stop, and Julien's breath caught in his throat.
Hundreds of fans wearing Bastia jerseys had gathered in the square, their faces lit with enthusiasm. The crowd stretched from the community center steps to the fountain at the square's heart.
"We're here!" Modoso announced, his voice thick with emotion as he came around to open the car door for Julien.
Pierre got out as well, but within seconds, Julien was engulfed by the crowd, hands reaching out to touch his shoulders, voices calling his name in a symphony of adoration that separated him from his father.
This was the Terra-Vecchia Community Center, a building that had served the neighborhood for generations. But today, the entire side front was wrapped in white cloth. Julien wasn't sure what Modoso meant, but he had a vague guess.
"Julien!" The cry erupted from a dozen throats simultaneously.
"You're Bastia's hero!" Another voice, cracking with emotion.
The fans around him began to surge with energy, their faces flushed with excitement as phones emerged from pockets like flowers blooming in spring. The clicking of cameras created a thumping against the backdrop of murmured prayers and whispered blessings.
Modoso pointed to the white cloth on the community center and said to Julien, "Julien, rest assured, Bastia will never forget anyone who has contributed to the club. Never."
Then he turned to face the surrounding fans, his chest expanding as he prepared to unleash decades of pent-up passion.
"Come on!" He roared. "Sing that song about Julien!"
"Julien! Julien!" The chant began.
Clap! Clap clap!!
"Corsica's lightning stride! From Clairefontaine to Bastia, you carry our pride! Blue blood in your sweat, victory in your veins— With every step, you break the chains!"
The surrounding fans chanted while rhythmically clapping and stamping their feet.
Besides the UB die-hard fans—their faces painted, their scarves raised like battle standards—people from all walks of Bastia life began to gather around the community center.
"Julien! Julien! You're the hurricane's cry! Your shots blaze through like fire in the sky! Forza Bastia! Turchini's sword! Julien De Rocca—our god, our lord!"
The UB fans sang in perfect unison, and to accommodate Julien, they sang in French instead of their beloved Corsican.
The onlookers, caught up in the infectious energy, began to sing along.
Currently, this "Song of Julien" was known by almost all Bastia fans.
"FORZA, Bastia!" The final cry exploded from hundreds of throats.
The song ended in a moment of perfect silence.
Clap clap clap!
Then everyone burst into applause.
Julien pressed his lips together, fighting back tears as his chest rose and fell with increased intensity. His Adam's apple bobbed several times as he struggled to swallow the emotion that nearly overwhelmed him completely.
The voices of the hundreds of people surrounding him created a sensation that far exceeded the excitement of thousands cheering in any stadium. This was different—intimate, personal, profound.
He was in the midst of it all.
He felt a surge of emotion rushing to the top of his head like champagne bubbles, making him dizzy with the intoxicating realization that this was an experience he had never had in either of his lives.
At this moment, Julien desperately wanted to bring a championship to Bastia, not for glory or personal achievement, but for these people who had made him understand what it meant to be loved unconditionally.
This team had been away from championships for far too long, and these fans had waited with the patience of saints for a savior who might never come.
"Thank you all!" Julien called out, his voice dense with emotion as he waved his arms to the fans around him.
"Julien, you don't need to thank us—we should thank you!" The response came from everywhere at once.
"Yes, Bastia should thank you!"
"You're our hero, we'll always support you!"
Modoso roared, "Alright, no need to say more. Now let's see Bastia's future landmark building!!"
"Yes!" Many fans became excited—they had been waiting for this moment.
"Julien, look!" Modoso pointed to the community center then gestured to the people below the building.
Whoosh!
The next second, the white cloth was pulled down in one motion, revealing a massive mural that covered the entire side of the community center.
As the white cloth fell like a curtain at the end of a performance, Julien watched with amazement.
The image showed the TIFO scene from their last match. There he was holding a crown inscribed with the letters "N, B" (for Napoléon Bonaparte, Corsica's most famous son), his face turned toward the mainland of France with an expression of pride.
Below the image, in both French and Corsican, were the words: "Ashes to the indifferent, glory to our king."
"Julien!"
"Julien!!!"
The moment the white cloth completely fell, the fans on site linked arms with each other, their faces streaked with tears of joy as they jumped and chanted together, creating a human chain of celebration.
At this moment, Julien's emotions reached their peak.
What does football mean?
Perhaps it's victory, perhaps it's championships, but more than that, it's that emotion—the countless sunsets when sweat from temple to temple exploded on the training ground grass, each drop a prayer offered to the gods of the beautiful game.
It's the plastic-wrapped ball from the slums at age six that will be revered by fans in a glass case at the Louvre thirty years later, transformed from a child's toy into a holy relic by the alchemy of dreams realized.
It's the receipt from when father pawned his wedding watch to pay for boots and registration fees, folded into a paper airplane by trembling hands, landing on the signature line of a youth contract in the pouring rain while mother watched from the doorway, her heart breaking and soaring simultaneously.
It's the one-legged old man's season ticket in the North Stand, unchanged for twenty years, with thirty grams of salt crystals hidden in the wrinkles—tears of joy and sorrow that had accumulated over decades of watching his beloved team fight and fall and rise again, soaked by tears on the night Bastia was relegated from the bottom of the Ligue 2 table, when grown men wept like children and children learned that love sometimes means suffering.
Thirty grams—exactly the same weight as the handful of confetti that fell into a baby carriage during Bastia's championship parade in 1981, when the island exploded with joy and the entire population seemed to dance in the streets until dawn.
What is football?
Everyone has their own answer, carved from their own experiences, polished by their own tears and laughter.
Now, in the hearts of all the Bastia fans present, what is football?
Football is the passionate surge hidden in the chants of "Julien," the desperate longing hidden in front of the massive mural, the belief that one man can carry the dreams of thousands, the faith that love and loyalty can triumph over money and cynicism.
"Julien!" The voice cut through his reverie.
"Julien!!" Pierre pushed through the excited crowd, his own eyes bright with emotion as he put his arm around Julien's shoulder.
"This is crazy, Julien. I'm proud of you," Pierre whispered, his voice almost lost in the continued celebration.
The commotion continued in front of the community center, showing no signs of lessening as more people arrived.
Modoso pointed to the wall and said to Julien with a big smile, "This will become a landmark building in Bastia!"
"Thank you," Julien managed to say softly.
"I told you, you never need to thank us. For everything you've done for the team, we need to thank you—thank you for your dedication to Bastia!" Modoso said, his hand gripping Julien's shoulder. "Thank you for reminding us what it means to hope."
"Alright, we've kept you for twenty minutes. Go on, go to the national team. We'll be waiting to watch your European Championship matches on TV this summer!"
Julien nodded. He waved to the fans, his hand moving slowly as if blessing each face in the crowd, then walked toward the car door as the fans made way for him.
The fans all shouted, their voices creating a chorus of encouragement that would echo in his memory forever:
"Go Julien! Show those who doubt you what talent really means!"
"Julien, go prove yourself with the national team!"
"Make Corsica proud!"
Julien smiled in response.
All the way to the car door, when Julien was about to get in, he suddenly stopped,.
Then he turned back to face the crowd and said firmly to all fans: "I will bring back a championship trophy for you all!"
At these words, there was half a second of absolute silence. Then came a tsunami of cheers!
"Julien!!"
A simple name, wrapped in everyone's infinite emotions, spread throughout Terra-Vecchia center.
Julien finally entered the car to go to the airport.
Behind him, as the vehicle pulled away from the square, those cheers could still be heard—carried by the Mediterranean Sea breeze across the island of Corsica, blowing toward the European mainland.
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