Julien's knowledge of Liverpool came from that eternally passionate German—though Klopp was still at Dortmund for now.
For Liverpool, this season represented a transitional period: bidding farewell to the past, embracing an uncertain future, groping through growing pains toward a new identity.
Brendan Rodgers had replaced club legend Kenny Dalglish in the summer of 2012, becoming Liverpool's second-youngest manager in history at just 39 years old.
He'd arrived at Anfield carrying the "possession and pass-and-move" philosophy that had brought him success at Swansea—what the media mockingly dubbed "religious tiki-taka" with a mandate to rebuild the squad from its foundations.
Rodgers had wasted no time implementing his football philosophy upon arrival.
At the season's start, he'd zealously pushed for possession play from the back, but the players executed it clumsily. The result was a dismal opening: just two points from the first five league matches.
The team frequently dominated possession statistics yet couldn't convert that control into victories, exposing a fatal weakness: there was no cutting edge up front.
Liverpool looked to be in freefall this season.
In the FA Cup, they'd been eliminated by Oldham Athletic, a side that would ultimately be relegated from League One. The upset ranked among the season's most humiliating moments.
This was also the first season since Liverpool's partnership with Adidas had ended. Last year's contract renewal negotiations had gone poorly—Adidas felt Liverpool's poor results didn't justify a premium price.
Adidas CEO Herbert Hainer had said: "We believe there's an imbalance between what Liverpool demands and what they deliver. There's a clear gap between their on-field performance and the standard they should reach, which affects public appeal, television exposure, and merchandise sales. What you can provide and what you receive should be in harmony. We felt Liverpool's demands were incorrect, so we gave them a negative answer. That's the end of the story."
Then, from the 2012-13 season onward, Warrior Sports took over—a brand under the New Balance Group.
Whether it was the FA Cup elimination by a League One relegation side, the disastrous early league form, or Adidas choosing to abandon Liverpool, many fans saw these as signs that Liverpool was continuing its descent into the abyss.
Rumors about Rodgers getting sacked swirled constantly, growing louder by the week.
However, one man had stepped forward to change the narrative.
Luis Suárez.
He was an angel—scoring 23 league goals, none from the penalty spot, virtually carrying the team's attack single-handedly.
His dribbling, creativity, and tireless running were Liverpool's primary source of threat.
He was also a devil.
Just last month on the 20th, in the match against Chelsea, he'd bitten opponent Branislav Ivanović's arm. The shocking incident earned him a 10-match ban from the FA.
Ivanović had complained to the referee: "He bit me like I was a bloody pork knuckle!"
This wasn't even Suárez's first biting incident.
On November 23, 2010, in an Ajax match against PSV Eindhoven, he'd gotten into an argument with opponent Otman Bakkal and bitten his left shoulder, receiving a seven-match suspension from the Dutch FA.
Of course, Julien knew this wouldn't be Suárez's last bite either.
In the original timeline, poor Chiellini would suffer the infamous chomp at the World Cup. Many Liverpool fans believed Suárez had done it because he no longer wanted to stay at Liverpool—that he was forcing a move to his beloved Barcelona.
Julien wondered: if Liverpool's acquisition succeeded, would Suárez still choose to bite someone at next year's World Cup?
That night, Bastia's Ligue 1 title sparked endless discussion throughout France.
For two consecutive years, PSG had failed to win the championship, prompting deeper debates about the efficacy of financial football.
The next day, Bastia's players didn't arrive at the training ground until afternoon—they'd celebrated long into the night.
Julien, however, had been up since morning, already completing a light training session.
That morning, the Saudi representatives had called to inform him they were going all-in on acquiring Liverpool.
Aston Villa's owners had no intention of selling, while Newcastle's owner Mike Ashley was demanding an astronomical price.
Despite Newcastle teetering on the edge of relegation, Ashley was asking for £450 million.
Ashley had known for years he lacked sufficient funds to compete with Manchester United, City, Arsenal, and Chelsea, so he'd simply stopped investing.
The media speculated: "Perhaps he's just keeping Newcastle in the Premier League while waiting for the right moment to sell."
In fact, Ashley's desire to find buyers had never disappeared. As early as September 2008, after fans staged serious protests over Kevin Keegan's resignation, Ashley had first entertained the idea of cutting his losses.
Over the following years, rumors of the Magpies changing ownership had been continuous and persistent.
But Ashley's asking price made it clear he wasn't serious about selling.
The Saudis revealed that Fenway Sports Group would accept a price around £700 million for Liverpool.
That was double what Fenway had paid to acquire Liverpool.
No wonder Fenway was tempted—tripling their money in three years was an incredibly profitable deal.
There was another factor: the Saudis disclosed that Fenway hoped they could partner together to acquire an NBA team. Fenway, after all, still wanted a seat at the table in American sports.
Arsenal's owner Stan Kroenke, for instance, owned the Denver Nuggets.
Fenway's finances were somewhat stretched for such a venture alone. Now, with the Saudis approaching, they saw an opportunity to sell Liverpool and gain an ally for entering the NBA.
Julien clearly hadn't anticipated this angle.
He checked online and discovered that Fenway had even given LeBron James a sweetheart deal in 2011—letting him purchase 2% of Liverpool's shares for $6.5 million.
Liverpool owner John Henry valued James's influence, hoping to leverage his fame to boost the club's exposure.
But all of this was still far removed from Julien's world. For now, he just wanted Liverpool's acquisition completed as quickly as possible.
In his heart, Julien set himself a small goal: to lift a fallen giant back to the pinnacle of Europe.
To the summit of world football.
After Pelé and Maradona, Zidane had come closest to claiming the title of football king, but ultimately fell short. Now, Julien hungered to challenge and surpass that designation during his own career.
He pulled up his stats panel to review his progress.
[Dribbling (+1): 90 (95); Passing: 82 (85)
Shooting (+1): 86 (88); Heading: 44 (63)
Speed (+1): 75 (76); Strength: 75 (77)
Jumping: 65 (72); Stamina (+1): 83 (85)
Defending: 33 (40); Tackling: 25 (33)
Flexibility (+1): 70 (71); Ball Control: 91 (95)
Hidden Attributes:
Injury Resistance: 67]
This was the foundation of his confidence.
That afternoon, as the squad's training session wound down, Hadzibegic gathered the players together.
The sea breeze swept across Bastia's training ground. In the distance, flags celebrating the Ligue 1 title still fluttered in the wind.
His gaze swept across each face—exhausted yet exhilarated.
The old-school coach grew serious once more, his stern demeanor was ready to dampen the celebratory mood.
"I know that over the past ten hours, many of you experienced the most glorious moment of your careers. The taste of champagne still lingers, the roar of celebration still echoes in your ears. You deserve all of it. You made history.
But now, I'm asking you to take that joy and glory and personally lock it away in your locker.
Right now, we are nothing. We have nothing. We're just a bunch of desperate wretches who need victory to survive!"
"YES!" Julien and his teammates shouted in unison as Hadzibegic finished speaking.
The coach said nothing more, simply dismissing them.
The players scattered in different directions.
Hadzibegic remained standing there, watching their backs disappear one by one.
The final battle. His heart ached with reluctance—reluctant to say goodbye to these young men, to their immense talent.
Hadzibegic had to admit: this Bastia squad was the strongest team he'd ever coached.
Young, yes, but overflowing with talent.
How else could they have snatched the title from PSG's grasp?
He exhaled deeply, then turned toward his office. Life was a series of farewells. All he could do was his job—give these youngsters the perfect ending they deserved.
Benfica?
"Let's see if you're harder to beat than Chelsea," he muttered.
After leaving the training ground, Bastia's players went their separate ways—some headed home, others to their apartments, a few to meet friends for continued celebration. Just as this season was ending, they too would soon scatter to the four winds.
The sun hung low, painting the Mediterranean surface a warm golden hue.
Julien, De Bruyne, and Rothen walked along the beach in silence, the waves were gently lapping at their footprints.
Rothen bent down to pick up a shell smoothed by the sea, holding it up to the fading light. "It's gone so fast. Feels like yesterday I first walked you two down this path. Now we're nearly at the end."
De Bruyne kicked at the sand beneath his feet, his mood was also down. "Yeah. Next month I'll be at Chelsea. Won't get many chances to walk this path again."
Julien gazed at the fishing boats returning across the horizon, a smile was on his face. "Then record the sound of Bastia's sea and take it with you, Kevin. When you're at Cobham, play it back." His smile deepened. "Consider it Bastia still being with you."
Rothen pocketed the shell. "This is for my daughter."
He brushed off his hands. "I'll have it easier than you two. As you know, I'm probably done playing. I'll open a little bar right here by the sea, watch you guys on TV every day. Hope you become Chelsea's star, Kevin. And you, Julien—which giant club will you rule over?"
"I'll sit behind the bar and tell everyone who comes for a drink: 'See those two? They used to be my teammates!'"
Julien and De Bruyne exchanged glances and shook their heads simultaneously. The scene felt both cruel and beautiful.
They all understood—as professional footballers, they were destined to experience countless farewells. Eventually, they'd all leave the pitch behind.
Become spectators.
A salt-tinged breeze swept past, and all three fell silent for a moment.
De Bruyne suddenly stopped walking. "Next week in the Netherlands might be the last time. The last time the three of us play together like this."
He was right. With two away league matches remaining, Hadzibegic had already announced major rotation, giving opportunities to substitutes who'd had limited minutes this season.
Players like Vincent, Clauss, and others.
From the team's perspective, it made sense—since the core players were leaving anyway, it was better to assess next season's available personnel.
Julien turned to face them, his gaze burning. "Then let's make this last time something nobody will ever forget."
He extended his hand.
"Not for the trophy. Not for records. For this beach. For these days we've walked together."
Rothen pressed his palm down heavily, his rough hand warm and solid. "For that, we'll tear through all of Europe."
De Bruyne stacked his hand on top. "Tear through Europe!"
Amid the sound of crashing waves, the three clasped hands tightly together.
The setting sun sank into the horizon, stretching their shadows long across the sand, as if etching this final moment of unity into Bastia's beach.
But pictures drawn in sand inevitably fade.
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