In the heart of the penalty area, time seemed to fracture into a thousand razor-sharp fragments. Every attacking player who'd burst into the box moved on pure instinct, their bodies were already committed before their minds could catch up.
Lukaku. De Bruyne. Even Sidibé, the left-back who'd bombed forward from the flank with terrifying pace, arrived at the back post like a guided missile.
Three players converging from three angles, three arrows aimed at the same target. Their eyes were locked onto the spinning ball, pupils dilated with nothing but the hunger to score.
But Julien's chip-shot—somewhere between a cross and an attempt on goal traced an arc that defied everyone's expectations.
The ball didn't drop toward any teammate's run. Instead, spinning viciously, it curved around every player in the box, bypassing defenders and attackers alike, and bent toward the far corner—even evading the goalkeeper.
Moraes had been completely deceived by the trajectory!
He'd already shifted his weight to intercept what he thought would be a cross. Now he could only scramble desperately in the opposite direction, throwing himself backward toward the far post. His fingertips stretched, almost there, millimeters from the leather—
Too late!
The ball grazed past his outstretched hand and cracked against the inside of the far post with a sound like a gunshot. The ricochet sent it spinning into the net, the white mesh bulging and rippling like a sail catching wind.
GOAL!!!
11 minutes. Bastia lead!
Julien hit the ground awkwardly, momentum carrying him into a stumbling roll. But he was up instantly, surging toward the Bastia supporters' section, both hands pounding the crest on his chest—once, twice, three times—each strike was punctuating his roar of triumph.
At the barrier separating pitch from stands, he faced the fans. Arms spread wide like a warrior accepting tribute, chest heaving, head thrown back. A deity bathed in volcanic fire, drinking in the worship that crashed over him in thunderous waves.
The noise from the stands threatened to consume him whole.
His goal had been lightning—a single bolt that struck the entire Bastia section and set it ablaze.
For one frozen second, the world held its breath.
Then—
The volcano erupted.
BOOM!
The Bastia fans detonated into a wall of sound that shook the very foundations of the Amsterdam Arena.
They didn't care about the final result anymore. Not yet. Right now, in this moment, they'd seen Julien—their Julien score with an audacious, unorthodox finish that most players wouldn't even attempt.
That was enough. That was everything.
Fans in the front rows gripped the railing with knuckled fists while their free hands windmilled the air, faces contorted as they screamed Julien's name, desperate for him to hear them, to feel them.
Among the crowd, elderly supporters—men who'd made the pilgrimage from Corsica felt tears carving paths down wrinkled cheeks. Some stood with mouths hanging open, unable to produce sound, only shoulders shaking with the force of suppressed sobs.
Thirty-five years ago, on a rain-soaked night in the Netherlands, they'd watched their team fall to defeat, shut out completely. Thirty-five years they'd waited. And now, at last—a goal in Amsterdam.
Redemption in the city of ghosts.
One man roared in Corsican dialect, voice shredding with emotion: "Do you see?! That's Julien! Our Julien!"
In this moment, tactics meant nothing. Formation didn't matter.
They only knew this: after thirty-five years of waiting, in the country where they'd lost everything, their young captain had put them ahead in the most impossible way imaginable.
Thirty-five years of longing. Eleven minutes of redemption.
Worth it. God, it was worth it.
In the stands, Zinedine Zidane lurched forward in his seat, hands coming together in spontaneous applause, eyes wide with incredulous admiration. "C'est incroyable!" The words escaped him automatically.
He turned to Deschamps. "Didier, did you see that? The decision-making under extreme pressure, the ankle flexibility to generate that spin—you can't teach that in training. That's raw talent. That's the instinct of a true superstar."
Deschamps also wore an expression of appreciation. "Of course. I've always known what kind of player Julien is. And if we want to go far in the World Cup, we need exactly this type of killer—someone born for the biggest stages."
Zidane nodded, gaze still tracking Julien on the pitch. "He reminds me of certain teammates from back in the day. Not the technique—the absolute confidence to attempt the impossible. He's different from everyone else, but that ability to decide matches? That's the same level."
The corner of Deschamps' mouth finally curved into a smile he couldn't quite suppress.
There were plenty of stars in world football. But genuine match-winners? Those were rare.
He exchanged another glance with Zidane, and both men smiled knowingly. This brilliant young player was France's answer at striker for the next ten years. Perhaps fifteen. There was no question about it.
Meanwhile, the TF1 commentator's voice cracked with shock and excitement, pitch rising, words tumbling over each other: "Mon Dieu! It's in! Julien De Rocca! Eleventh minute! This is a goal beyond description! This is a goal only a genius could score!
Look at the replay—Lukaku's shot blocked, Louison's clearance ricocheting toward the byline. Everyone gave up. Everyone except Julien! His acceleration was lightning made flesh!
Zero-degree angle! Negative angle, even! His body was completely off-balance—this shouldn't be a shooting position at all. Goalkeeper Moraes had sealed the near post completely. He thought it would be a pass at best.
But Julien! He whipped it with the outside of his boot, curling a diabolical arc! Look at that trajectory—bypassing everyone in the box. Lukaku, De Bruyne, Sidibé, all arrived perfectly but they became nothing more than backdrop for this goal! The ball spun directly toward the far corner!
This is a goal that transforms the impossible into reality!
The Amsterdam Arena is erupting! Bastia's supporters have gone absolutely mad! Thirty-five years of waiting, thirty-five years since the heartbreak on Dutch soil—and in this moment, their new generation of talent has achieved revenge across time itself with the most incredible strike imaginable!
Benfica are paying the price for their aggressive opening! They dominated for ten minutes, but Julien needed only one instant to rewrite the scoreline!
This is football!
This is a final!
This is the value of a superstar!"
Back in Corsica, thousands of Bastia fans who couldn't make the trip had gathered at the Stade Armand Cesari. The club had organized a viewing party for supporters unable to travel to the Netherlands—the only requirement was wearing a Bastia shirt.
When the giant screen showed Julien's goal hitting the net, the roar from a few thousand throats matched the usual cacophony of twenty thousand.
Geography didn't matter. They stretched their arms toward Amsterdam, toward the hero on the screen, and they jumped, embraced, pounded the air—as if they could reach through time and space to touch that distant patch of grass.
The entire stadium became a boiling cauldron of blue, every shout was a scalding bubble rising to the surface.
Thirty-five years of waiting had received the most extreme, most passionate answer imaginable in the place where the dream began.
They weren't in Amsterdam.
But they were Amsterdam tonight.
No one had expected the balance of the match to tip so dramatically in just eleven minutes.
In Amsterdam, the contrast was obvious—Bastia's euphoria highlighted Benfica's devastation. The away bench told the story in miniature: Benfica's substitutes sat in stunned disbelief, some with heads in hands, while Bastia's reserves erupted in savage celebration.
The managers mirrored this divide.
Jorge Jesus stood rigid; brow furrowed deeply. But his concern hadn't started with the goal—he'd worn this expression even during Benfica's sustained pressure. He knew that against a counter-attacking team as lethal as Bastia, failing to score early invited punishment.
Now the punishment had arrived.
Meanwhile, Faruk Hadzibegic celebrated with his staff before forcing himself to calm down. One goal meant nothing. It was far too early for celebrations.
He made repeated downward pressing gestures with both palms, then tapped his temple, signaling everyone to keep their heads.
The match had barely started.
That single goal completely shattered the tactical balance.
As Julien walked back toward the center circle after celebrating, he caught up with his teammates. "Stay calm," he told them. "It's not over. We need two hundred percent focus to finish this."
"Julien!"
A familiar voice cut through the ambient noise.
He glanced toward the source—the Mbappé family.
The Mbappé brothers were waving frantically at him.
Julien nodded slightly, surprised to see them in what looked like the Benfica section.
Mbappé, along with Ethan and Saliba, celebrated even harder when they received acknowledgment.
None of them noticed how the atmosphere around them had frozen over.
Benfica supporters eyed the French intruders with cold hostility.
Wilfrid Mbappé quietly urged his sons to tone it down.
It wasn't that they hadn't wanted Bastia tickets—they simply couldn't get any. So, they'd bought neutral section seats, only to find themselves surrounded by Portuguese fans.
WHISTLE!
The match resumed.
Benfica came out like disturbed hornets. No hesitation after kickoff—they immediately launched a fiercer, more desperate assault on Bastia's defensive line.
They had no choice now.
They needed a goal.
This was the cruelty of cup football.
Benfica's flanks became the focal point. Right winger Salvio suddenly burst forward, receiving a pass near the corner of the penalty area. Without taking a touch to settle, he unleashed a ferocious strike aimed at the near post!
The ball screamed toward goal like an artillery shell.
Martínez reacted with cat-like reflexes, flinging himself sideways and deflecting it over the bar with his fingertips!
The save drew gasps from the crowd.
From the resulting corner, Benfica striker Cardozo used his powerful body to attack the near post, rising high above the crowd—
But Van Dijk stood like a monolith. With superior positioning and aerial dominance, he easily outmuscled Cardozo and sent a thumping header clear of danger!
ROAR!
The defensive stand drew cheers from the Bastia section.
Choplin and the other defenders mobbed Van Dijk, screaming celebration. This defensive moment was as valuable as scoring.
But Benfica's all-out attack remained a double-edged sword.
To maintain pressure, their defensive line pushed higher and higher, stretching the space between midfield and defense to dangerous proportions.
Every cleared cross, every blocked shot meant Bastia might instantly win possession.
Center-backs Garay and Luisão had advanced near the halfway line. Behind them was acres of open grass.
Up front, Julien and Lukaku waited like arrows on drawn bowstrings.
Their eyes never left the space behind Benfica's last defender. Waiting. Always waiting to strike.
Jorge Jesus stood on the touchline looking increasingly anxious.
As a manager, he understood his team's vulnerability perfectly.
But he had no choice.
They had to attack!
ROAR!
Suddenly, Rothen intercepted again and unlike previous attempts, this time his pass found De Bruyne cleanly.
Rothen had expended tremendous energy on defense. For a veteran in this high-intensity final, the physical toll was mounting.
But this pass was pure class.
Dangerous class.
De Bruyne collected possession. Julien immediately recognized the moment.
He cut laterally to receive, but Jardel stayed glued to his side, fingers covertly tugging his shirt.
The instant Julien felt the pull, he didn't fight it—instead, he slammed on the brakes and spun!
The sudden reversal sent Jardel stumbling forward off-balance, his grip was broken.
Julien accelerated into the space he'd created.
A golden counter-attacking opportunity—
WHISTLE!
But referee Kuipers' whistle pierced the moment.
Yellow card. Pointed at Matić.
Matić didn't argue. Just shook his head and dropped back into position.
De Bruyne had been climbing to his feet after Matić simply tackled him—not the ball, just the man—wrapping him up and dragging him down.
Matić understood perfectly: letting De Bruyne release that pass would be catastrophic.
So, he chose a tactical foul.
Jorge Jesus' expression darkened further. Not even twenty minutes gone, and his midfield lynchpin was on a yellow card. How were they supposed to manage the rest of the match?
The free kick was played short and simple.
Matić's tactical foul had killed the counter, but Bastia's attacking intent remained.
After several passes, they transitioned into positional play as Benfica's defense dropped deep.
The ball cycled back to Julien.
Bastia's tactics were exactly as the media had described: beautifully simple. When the game stalled, give it to Julien.
Receiving with his back to goal on the right wing, Julien immediately felt Jardel and Salvio converge on him like starving wolves, four arms were nearly locking him in place.
After getting burned several times, Jardel had learned his lesson: De Rocca was far more dangerous than his innocent face suggested. A proper street footballer.
This time, Jardel played it cautious. No rash challenges. Just containment.
Stop De Rocca, that's all.
However—
With one absurdly quick dragback and turn, Julien slipped through the tiny gap between both defenders!
But instead of forcing the issue, he spotted vast open space down the left and launched a sweeping diagonal pass to overlapping left-back Sidibé, then immediately cut inside toward the center.
Sidibé didn't cross. Instead, he laid it back to De Bruyne arriving centrally.
Two passes carved visible chaos through Benfica's defensive shape.
De Bruyne took one touch and sliced a surgical through-ball with his right foot—
Not toward Lukaku in the middle, but into the vacant left channel of the penalty area!
Left winger Palmieri sprinted to meet it. But his age showed. He wasn't quick enough.
The veteran took a touch to control instead of hitting it first-time, and that single moment of hesitation gave defenders time to recover.
The attack stalled.
"What a chance! What a glorious chance!" the TF1 commentator groaned. "But that touch! That one extra touch! In the blink of an eye, the attacking rhythm died completely!
"That control killed it. And it makes you think about Julien's movement—his body shape is always forward, always toward goal. When he receives the ball, he's already connecting to the next action: shot or dribble.
Palmieri, like most ordinary forwards needs to control first, observe second, then decide. Elite players and regular players are separated by precisely this: the action that determines life or death.
This is why Julien costs €80 million while Palmieri is a rotation option at Bastia. The talent gap reveals itself in these instinctive moments of processing.
In Julien's mind, there's no 'pause'—only 'finish.'
This perfectly encapsulates Bastia's blessing and curse: they have a match-deciding superstar, but they must also endure the reality that other positions can't approach his level."
Palmieri recycled possession backward.
Bastia's momentum receded. Their attack wasn't particularly sophisticated—they preferred individual brilliance in transition rather than orderly possession to manipulate defensive shapes.
Bluntly put: their personnel suited counter-attacking football. They couldn't execute proper possession-based tactics.
In the attacking third, only Julien and De Bruyne could reliably carry the ball under pressure.
The match settled into stalemate. Bastia patiently probed, recycling possession.
Soon Benfica's press forced a turnover, and Bastia retreated into their defensive comfort zone.
One-goal lead. Benfica's supporters still roared encouragement, urging their team to find an equalizer quickly.
But their attack looked equally constipated. Van Dijk had Cardozo in his pocket, and Kanté shadowed Matić's every movement.
The few long-range efforts either sailed into the stands or got blocked.
Bastia had counter-attacking opportunities, but Benfica had learned their lesson—after conceding possession centrally, their pressure arrived instantly. De Bruyne found himself marked tightly, making long passes became impossible.
However—
After seeing Benfica focus on De Bruyne, Bastia adapted.
They'd attack from wide areas instead.
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