"Bastia are champions!"
"One hundred and eight years of waiting—finally, mercifully, gloriously over!"
"The Stade Armand Cesari has become the most euphoric ground in all of France! They've done it! They've created the impossible!
Let us remember this magnificent name: Julien De Rocca—forty-six legendary goals, the perfect fusion of individual brilliance and collective glory! He is the eternal king of this island!
Look at them! The entire island of Bastia's drowning in a delirious blue ocean! Tears, roars, embraces—every emotion has been unleashed in this single, transcendent moment!
This isn't just a match won. This is a century-old dream made flesh!
Congratulations to Bastia! Congratulations to everyone who believed in miracles! Tonight, football has proven its magic once more—passion, belief, and unity can conquer all! Tonight, celebrate without restraint!
But next—their eyes turn to Amsterdam. The Europa League final awaits, and this newly-crowned Ligue 1 champion is ready to conquer Europe!"
The TF1 commentator's voice cracked with emotion, swept up in the tide of celebration gushing over the stadium.
The Stade Armand Cesari had transformed into a churning blue sea of humanity. Amidst the pandemonium, the Ligue 1 trophy presentation was about to begin.
"Bastia are champions!"
When that declaration thundered through the stadium speakers, the Cesari—already at fever pitch—somehow found another gear. The emotional crescendo threatened to lift the roof off the ground.
The presentation platform stood at the center circle, bathed in countless spotlights like a sacred altar. League president Frédéric Thiriez cradled the gleaming silver Ligue 1 trophy, a broad smile on his face as he awaited the heroes.
The players went up one by one.
Each name announced over the PA system triggered seismic eruptions from the corresponding sections of the stands. When Kanté, Mané, and De Bruyne were called, the decibel levels scaled even higher. They jostled and laughed as they climbed the steps, their smiles dazzling under the lights as medals were draped around their necks.
The climax arrived with the final name.
"And finally—let us welcome our captain, our legend, our heart—JULIENNN—DEE-----ROCCCAAA!"
The stadium exploded.
Julien was the last to ascend the platform. A blue flag draped across his shoulders, his face etched with exhaustion but radiating a radiant joy. His gaze swept across the stands—those screaming faces, those supporters weeping with happiness, his teammates standing shoulder to shoulder with expressions of unbridled elation.
In that moment, memories flickered through his mind like film stills: solitary training sessions by the sea at dusk, his father Pierre's silent but unwavering presence, the electric thrill of first pulling on this blue shirt. And yes, the disorienting strangeness of arriving in this world, this life that had become his own.
Julien drew a deep breath.
He embraced Thiriez first, then bowed his head slightly as the president placed the medal around his neck.
Thiriez had long since made peace with Julien's decision not to remain in France. He spoke softly: "Congratulations, Julien. You haven't just won Bastia a championship—you've delivered a season of unparalleled brilliance that's written a new legend into French football. The entire nation will remember your name. Enjoy this moment, young man. You've made history. Now go with your teammates and lift that trophy that belongs to you all."
Julien smiled and nodded. "Thank you, Mr. President."
But he didn't move toward the trophy immediately.
Instead, he turned toward the stands, toward that massive tifo bearing his portrait, and pounded his chest with his fist before pointing directly at the supporters who had given him everything.
The roar that followed threatened to tear the night sky apart.
Then came the moment they'd all been waiting for.
Julien took a deep breath, locked eyes with De Bruyne and Kanté beside him, then gripped the base of the trophy firmly. His teammates crowded close, every face alight with fierce joy.
Their eyes were blazed with triumph.
The countdown began: "Three! Two! One!"
Together, they hoisted the trophy high above their heads.
"WE ARE CHAMPIONS!"
Instantly, golden and blue confetti erupted from cannons around the platform, cascading down like a brilliant rainstorm. Champagne bottles—shaken to the point of explosion was sprayed foam into the air and over everyone in reach.
Camera flashes strobed continuously, immortalizing the scene.
Players wept and laughed simultaneously, jostling to touch and kiss the trophy. Hadzibegic was doused head-to-toe in champagne by his players, yet beamed wider than anyone.
Julien, De Bruyne, Lukaku, and the others carried the trophy toward the enormous club banner at the edge of the pitch. They knelt in a circle around it, the trophy at the center, and captured a photograph destined for the history books.
When the medal ceremony concluded, the stadium announcer called for quiet.
"This is our final home match of the season. Please welcome Julien De Rocca to say a few words!"
Thunderous applause and cheers erupted.
Julien accepted the microphone from the announcer and stood at the center of the presentation platform. Spotlights illuminated his sweat-soaked but radiant face. The crowd fell silent, tens of thousands of eyes were focused on him.
He opened his mouth. No sound came out at first.
"Thank you... thank you all."
His voice emerged hoarse initially, then grew steady and powerful. "One hundred and eight years. Honestly? I don't know how long that really is—after all, I'm only eighteen."
Laughter rippled through the stands.
"But I want to say this: this trophy belongs to you—to every person who roared for this team through wind and rain, to every soul who carved this faith into their bones. I still remember the first time I stepped onto this pitch, my heart hammering in my chest. It was your passion, your deafening support, that gave a lost, confused boy somewhere to belong. This team, this island—they're part of my life now."
Applause swelled. Many supporters listened intently with glistening eyes. In this moment, Julien's words carried an undercurrent of melancholy. They understood the truth: this was Julien's last match at the Cesari. They couldn't keep this prodigious talent.
Julien inhaled deeply, his tone was becoming more solemn. "I don't want to talk about this championship. I only want to say this: no matter where my future takes me, remember—Bastia blue flows through my veins! My heart will always beat for Bastia!"
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