The replies overflowed with emotion, every supporter laying bare their feelings and hopes in the comments.
This was Bastia's united vision.
"History isn't for reminiscing—it's for rewriting! Bring every old jersey, every old photo, every old story to Amsterdam and create a new legend!"
"Corsican men don't cry in front of outsiders, but tonight I'll allow myself to shed tears for our fathers' heartbreak. Tomorrow, we'll use the loudest songs to shatter 35 years of silence!"
"My father's in that photo too! He's white-haired now, can't make it to the stadium, but tomorrow I'll watch the broadcast with him at home, cheering for the team.
35 years. I hope you finish singing 'Allez Bastia' with smiles under the Dutch night sky! That was our fathers' battle anthem!
Better yet, sing the 1977 version—the original song that preceded that tragic ending. This time, I want every Bastia supporter roaring with joy to that melody: BASTIA ARE EUROPEAN CHAMPIONS!!"
Forza Bastia Forza
Forza Bastia Forza
Forza Bastia Forza
Allez Bastia, allez!
Du nord au sud nous te suivrons
Aux quatre coins du continent
Les avions bleus arriveront
Bastia gardera le ballon
[Spoken: "Bastia gardera le ballon"]
Forza Bastia Forza
Forza Bastia Forza
Forza Bastia Forza
Allez Bastia, allez!
Bastia, pour toi, nous serons là
Du Brésil ou de Calcutta
Quand l'avion bleu se posera
Bastia, nous chanterons pour toi
[Spoken: "Bastia, nous chanterons pour toi"]
Forza Bastia Forza
Forza Bastia Forza
Forza Bastia Forza
Allez Bastia, allez!
Pendant longtemps on parlera
Des bleus bastiais, de leurs exploits
Car sans complexe
Vous jouez le ballon
Impossible n'est pas bastiais
[Spoken: "Impossible n'est pas bastiais"]
Forza Bastia Forza
Forza Bastia Forza
Forza Bastia Forza
Allez Bastia, allez!
{Author's Note: I will provide English version of this at last.}
That evening, Amsterdam's night wind carried the humid vapor from the canals, gently brushing across the hotel rooftop.
Chataigner and Julien stood side by side against the railing, gazing at the Amsterdam Arena's illuminated silhouette in the distance.
Chataigner's gaze remained fixed on the distant stadium. He'd specifically summoned Julien here to complete a solemn farewell.
Nobody knew tomorrow night's outcome, but he clearly recognized that perhaps next month, this young man would be wearing another team's colors.
Julien and Pierre had already disclosed their collaboration plans with the Saudi consortium—together, they would reshape the Premier League landscape.
It all seemed distant to Chataigner, but he believed firmly in Julien's abilities.
Now, his voice was calm as still water, "When I first saw your scouting report, I was astonished—a genuine golden phoenix flying out of Fontaine-le-Comte.
I'm embarrassed to admit I was still hesitating about whether to manage a certain team back then. Later I thought, perhaps coaching wasn't my path.
Not until I returned to Bastia, back to the club where I'd spent many years as a player, seeing the team nearly drop out of professional football—I felt I had to do something.
So, I took action.
Later, when I learned Nantes had released you, I thought maybe I could give you another chance.
I wanted to give the kids from Fontaine-le-Comte hope, give this fallen genius from Fontaine-le-Comte a fresh start because I genuinely believed you'd become the biggest star to ever emerge from that town!
Still true today, of course."
He paused briefly, his tone was tinged with reflection: "Just didn't expect that before you'd even appeared for Bastia's first team, you'd land in prison first."
Julien's expression remained calm—those events hadn't been his doing; he could accept them with perfect calmness.
As Julien opened his mouth to respond, Chataigner raised his hand to stop him: "The past no longer matters. What matters is tomorrow night—all of Europe will witness how Bastia's genius conquers Europe."
His tone grew solemn, "After the season ends, your future is yours to decide. Whether Arsenal, Liverpool, or another club, the club will respect your choice. That's my promise to you."
Julien nodded.
Bastia was fortunate to have a sporting director like Chataigner.
"But before then," Chataigner's voice suddenly sharpened, "I want you to play this final for every Bastia child and supporter. Especially for those kids watching on television, playing on gravel pitches in Fontaine-le-Comte—show them that even someone who walked off those gravel fields can stand at Europe's pinnacle."
Meeting Chataigner's gaze directly, Julien looked toward the distant stadium and responded firmly: "I will."
Chataigner gave his shoulder a final pat. "Get some rest. After tomorrow, all of France will be proud of you—because you'll be a European champion, the pride of French football."
"Yes."
They spoke no more, standing side by side gazing at Amsterdam Arena's brilliant lights in the distance, the night wind seeming to quiet around them.
The next day, ripples from the European final spread outward from the Netherlands across the entire continent.
The Europa League final, as European club football's premier competition after the Champions League, invariably attracted global attention.
This season's ultimate showdown pitted traditional powerhouse Benfica against shocker underdog Bastia.
Bastia's path to the final particularly deserved mention—it was a truly epic journey.
They'd consecutively eliminated Tottenham Hotspur, Inter Milan, and Chelsea, European heavyweights all, fighting their way to the final with overwhelming force.
Julien himself averaged two goals per match, leading the Europa League golden boot race by an insurmountable margin.
Everyone understood: if Benfica wanted the trophy, their key strategy had to be completely shutting down Julien.
Meanwhile, media continuously hyped Bastia's underdog miracle and Julien's genius narrative, whipping speculation about his summer destination into a frenzy.
From Real Madrid and Barcelona to various Premier League giants, almost every European powerhouse had been linked with his name—unquestionably, this French super-talent had become European football's center of attention and most coveted treasure.
Media were already calling him the potential "Third Force" who could break Messi and Ronaldo's Ballon d'Or monopoly.
Though to be fair, potential "third forces" weren't exactly rare these days.
Time slipped away amid the swirling voices until—
Sunset's afterglow painted Amsterdam's canals amber.
Bastia supporters surged from cafe-lined streets toward the Amsterdam Arena, blue flags rippling like battle standards in the wind.
This time, their eyes burned not just with hunger but with history's scars and the flames of vengeance.
For Bastia fans, setting foot on Dutch soil felt like fate coming full circle.
1978—the same Low Country, the same Europa League final (then called the UEFA Cup)—their fathers had watched their beloved team fall short at PSV Eindhoven's home ground, the club's first European trophy slipping through their fingers.
That defeat was an old wound carved into every Bastia supporter's heart.
Afterward, Bastia had sunk completely. Forget European trophies—they'd lost even the qualification to enter European competition, plummeting through domestic leagues all the way to the third tier.
Now, exactly 35 years later, fate had brought them back to the Netherlands.
"Netherlands"—for Bastia people was no longer just tulips and windmills, but where glory and heartbreak intersected, the redemption ground they'd awaited an entire generation to revisit.
They gathered outside the Amsterdam Arena like a volcano preparing to erupt.
Every "FORZA, BASTIA!" shout wasn't merely for tonight's final—it reached across time to answer that heartbroken night in 1978.
This wasn't a simple football match. This was a battle Bastia people had to win—it became about dignity, about historical destiny.
North Sea winds swept across their faces, no longer carrying Dutch brine.
But the call of their Mediterranean home—summoning them to use victory to close the chapter on 35 years of waiting.
//////////////////////
[The Song in English:
Forza Bastia Forza
Forza Bastia Forza
Forza Bastia Forza
Allez Bastia, allez!
From north to south we'll follow you
To every corner of the continent
The blue planes will arrive on through
Bastia will keep the ball in hand
[Spoken: "Bastia will keep the ball in hand"]
Forza Bastia Forza
Forza Bastia Forza
Forza Bastia Forza
Allez Bastia, allez!
Bastia, for you, we will be there
From Brazil or from Calcutta's land
When the blue plane touches down with care
Bastia, we'll sing for you so grand
[Spoken: "Bastia, we'll sing for you so grand"]
Forza Bastia Forza
Forza Bastia Forza
Forza Bastia Forza
Allez Bastia, allez!
For a long time people will proclaim
The blue Bastiais and all their feats
Because without fear or any shame
You play the ball with heart that beats
Impossible is not Bastian's name
[Spoken: "Impossible is not Bastian's name"]
Forza Bastia Forza
Forza Bastia Forza
Forza Bastia Forza
Allez Bastia, allez!
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