A match against the Paris team on Corsica was always a grand occasion.
After all, Paris was once conquered by a legendary figure from this very island.
Due to Corsica's long-standing independence tendencies, Bastia fans often viewed matches against Parisian teams as symbolic battles "against mainland France."
This particular game had Bastia supporters absolutely fired up.
The current Bastia was nothing like the Bastia of old. With players like Julien and KDB in their team, they had carved out a respectable position in the current Ligue 1 standings.
After five rounds of Ligue 1, Hadzibegic's so-called "relegation team" had quietly climbed to fifth place. Their opponents today, Paris Saint-Germain, had gradually risen to fourth.
This direct confrontation could significantly impact the league standings.
At Stade Armand Césari, by six in the evening, Bastia fans had already gathered around the stadium under the leadership of Ultras Bastia. Everyone was shouting slogans and singing Bastia anthems with passion.
When PSG's team bus approached the stadium, the Bastia fans went wild.
At the front of the crowd, Modoso stood shirtless, a Moor's head tattooed on his chest and "Julien" inked on his shoulder along with other designs. He was the first to rush toward the bus, roaring: "Parisians! Your souls are in the bank!"
While shouting, he pounded on the bus with his fists.
More and more Bastia fans surged forward, completely forcing the bus to a halt. The Bastia police moved rather "slowly" through the crowd, seemingly blocked and unable to get through.
"Your trophies belong to Qatar, our glory belongs to Corsica!"
"Mercenaries, go back to Paris! How much is your loyalty worth?"
Countless voices merged together.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Hearing the various sounds hitting the bus, PSG's players inside grew restless. Especially Ibrahimovic.
Perhaps he hadn't yet adapted to Corsica's unique intensity of confrontation—in Ligue 1's second round, when PSG played away against Ajaccio, Ibra had lost control when the match was interrupted by fans throwing objects. Ajaccio eventually drew with PSG.
So, he had no fondness whatsoever for Corsica. His face darkened as he told Silva beside him, "I'm going to tear apart their defense and make them feel the pain of conceding at home."
The police finally "broke through" the crowd. After all, if they didn't intervene soon, PSG might be delayed entering the stadium, and the home team would face punishment.
The police proved effective. When they decided to act, Modoso and his crew scattered. However, after clearing a path, Modoso led the fans in making 'rude' gestures toward the team bus.
"Is everything ready?" Modoso asked those beside him as the bus entered the stadium.
"Of course! Those guys from Ajaccio gave the Parisians hell—how could we miss such an opportunity!"
Inside the Stadium:
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!!
The thunderous drumming of drums echoed through Stade Armand Césari like war drums announcing battle. By the time PSG's players emerged from the tunnel for warm-ups, every seat was occupied, every standing section packed flesh against flesh.
Twenty thousand voices merged into one roar—this was Bastia's unity in bold action.
The north stand transformed into a wriggling sea of blue and white. Scarves whipped through the smoky air as flares turned the twilight sky in Corsican colors. The tifosi never stopped singing, their voices hoarse but unbroken, launching one brutal chant after another at their wealthy Parisian visitors:
"TREMBLE, OIL MEN! TREMBLE!"
The entire stadium shook as twenty thousand feet stomped in synchronization.
THUD! THUD!"Money can't buy heart—Parisians are weak-kneed!"
THUD! THUD!"Gold can't buy loyalty—mercenaries flee!"
THUD! THUD! THUD!
The rhythm quickened like a tribal war chant, faster and more frenzied with each repetition. Then came the personal attacks:
"Ancelotti! Is your tactical manual thick as a brick? But you forgot to read it that night in Istanbul!"
"Ibra calls himself God? Your bicycle kicks flash like lightning, but you miss sitters like my blind grandmother!"
"Ménez and your fancy footwork! All those step-overs are fierce—but when we look closer, you're just dancing in place!"
The atmosphere was suffocating, intoxicating, terrifying. Sound waves crashed down from the stands. Even seasoned PSG veterans, men who had played at the Bernabéu and San Siro, exchanged jumpy glances.
This felt more hostile than their previous island nightmare at Ajaccio.
Ibrahimović, his jaw clenched in irritation, tried to silence the crowd with his trademark arrogance.
"Islanders will be islanders," He muttered dismissively. "Barbaric."
He then lined up for a practice shot despite the chaos around him. But as his strike sailed high over the crossbar and disappeared into the baying crowd—
BOOOOOOOOOO!!!
The entire stadium erupted. Twenty thousand voices merged into one deafening wall of mockery. Scarves flew like battle flags. The noise was so intense that birds fled from the floodlight towers.
On the other side, Bastia's players were warming up intensively.
On the way back to the dressing room, Julien told Mané, "Don't be nervous. Remember to track back more."
"Got it!"
Mané nodded. He noticed that ever since he'd signed full ownership rights to Pierre's agency, he'd actually been getting starts. Though there seemed to be no connection between these two things, he couldn't help thinking about Julien's influence at Bastia.
Kanté remained silent as always. De Bruyne was brimming with fighting spirit. Lukaku looked somewhat dejected—he wasn't starting this match.
In the dressing room, Hadzibegic addressed the team: "It's Full defensive mode! Everyone must defend! Only Julien doesn't need to drop back too deep—he'll be our counter-attack spearhead. We have one tactic for this match: defend and counter-attack! We're at home, but defending isn't shameful—losing is shameful!"
The players nodded in agreement.
Bastia's summer transfer budget was only one-tenth of PSG's. The gap in squad values was enormous.
Though Julien, De Bruyne, and Lukaku had decent valuations, only these three were worth over ten million for Bastia. PSG, meanwhile, had numerous players worth over ten million.
Just counting those worth over thirty million, approaching forty million euros, there were Ibrahimovic, Pastore, Silva, and others. Additionally, Verratti, Ménez, Alex, and other starters were all valued at ten million or more. Even goalkeeper Sirigu was worth twelve million euros!
On paper, Bastia was completely outclassed by PSG.
Therefore, Hadzibegic emphasized again, "Defense! The key to this match is defense! We can't let them score easily!"
He turned to look at Rothen and Angoula, "You're both experienced players. I trust you know how to play against Ibra."
Angoula thumped his chest. "Don't worry! I used to practice Muay Thai! I definitely won't let him get comfortable!"
Rothen nodded as well.
Hadzibegic then looked at Julien. Without words needed, Julien nodded slightly—he understood what he had to do: give everything to get the ball into the net!
Hadzibegic gaze moved to Mané, who also nodded. This was his first start, and he didn't want to mess it up.
Soon, it was time.
In the center of the dressing room, the players linked hands and shouted together: "FORZA Bastia!"
________________________________________________________
Check out my patreon where you can read more chapters:
patreon.com/LorianFiction
Thanks for your support!