28th minute.
Veteran Palmieri, under pressure on the left, calmly rolled the ball square for overlapping left-back Sidibé.
Without hesitation, Sidibé exploded forward like lightning!
Tall and powerful, he drove down the flank at frightening speed.
Just as defensive midfielder Enzo Pérez stepped up to challenge, Sidibé played a quick one-two with De Bruyne centrally, then continued his run to receive the return pass.
A textbook give-and-go. Sidibé found himself in acres of space down the left.
Palmieri, despite lacking pace, gambled forward in support. Bastia's entire shape pushed up.
But Almeida tracked back to slow Sidibé's momentum.
Another transition into positional attack.
De Bruyne dropped to receive, immediately feeling defensive attention. He looked for target-man Lukaku, but the Belgian striker was bracketed by Luisão and Garay—there was no passing lane available.
In that split-second, De Bruyne's vision caught a blue figure ghosting into position—
Julien!
He'd drifted away from the congested center toward the wide-open left channel, while Palmieri intelligently tucked inside to create the space.
Without hesitation, De Bruyne rolled a precise ground pass before the double-team could form, finding Julien on the left flank.
Julien cushioned it perfectly near the touchline. Benfica's Pérez scrambled back defensively while Almeida also converged after Sidibé retreated.
Everyone anticipated a cross to the back post—Lukaku and Palmieri had already positioned themselves perfectly. It was the logical choice.
At worst, he could recycle to the free Sidibé.
Julien dropped his shoulder as if preparing to accelerate toward the byline, selling the dummy. Pérez shifted his weight backward—
Then in one explosive movement, Julien's right foot flicked the ball diagonally forward, and his body burst between Pérez and Almeida into the penalty area!
The sudden cut-inside caught everyone flat-footed!
Many couldn't process how easily he'd carved through them!
Pérez instinctively reached out, but inside the box, he hesitated. That moment of doubt was fatal.
Center-back Luisão rushed across to block the shooting angle.
Goalkeeper Moraes quickly adjusted his positioning, sealing the near post.
Julien wound up his left leg, swinging through violently toward the ball—
Luisão, recovering Pérez, and Almeida all launched desperate sliding blocks!
Three bodies were flying to stop the shot.
Even Moraes had committed his weight, preparing to dive.
But—
Julien's left foot stopped dead at the last microsecond, barely touching the ball to drag it horizontally.
He'd sold them all completely!
The three sliding defenders could only watch helplessly as their momentum carried them past, scrambling to get up and continue defending.
But Julien was too quick.
Two steps to adjust his body shape, then his right foot lashed through the ball with explosive power—
CRACK!
The shot came off his boot like a rifle report. No spin, just raw velocity. The ball skimmed the turf, rocketing toward the far corner at blistering speed.
Moraes had been completely deceived by the feint. He could only turn his head in desperation toward the far post.
On the other side, center-back Garay threw his body recklessly toward the ball's path—
Too late.
The ball smashed into the far corner, sending the white net rippling upward in violent waves, like Mediterranean surf cresting white against the shore.
GOAL AGAIN!
Julien with a brace!
Bastia 2-0!
The entire Amsterdam Arena detonated.
After watching the ball nestle in the net, Julien's face split into a fierce grin. He hammered his chest badge repeatedly—once, twice, three times—then sprinted toward the corner flag and launched into a power slide, carving three deep furrows in the grass.
Rising smoothly, he spread his arms wide, head tilted back, directly facing the Bastia ultras' section.
The stadium lights blazed down like the sun illuminating a dream.
De Bruyne arrived first, leaping onto Julien's back and frantically ruffling his hair, shouting in his ear: "Brilliant! Absolutely brilliant, Julien! Brace in the final!"
Lukaku, Rothen, Palmieri—all piled on, not hugging but pounding his back with force, each face glowing disbelief and joy.
2-0!
In a final, this was a massive scoreline.
Most finals were tight, cautious affairs.
Nobody wanted to make mistakes. But today, Bastia had maintained their ruthless efficiency.
Benfica had been torn apart!
In front of the celebrating players, the Bastia section had fallen into absolute pandemonium. Faces twisted in ecstatic fury, blue flags were rippling like ocean waves.
"JULIEN!!"
"JULIEN!!!"
The chant was unified, deafening, drowning out everything else!
Hadzibegic felt the tension that had coiled in his chest for ninety minutes suddenly burst like a dam breaking. He punched the air savagely, so overcome with emotion that he kicked over his water bottle, sending it skittering toward the technical area.
Then he spun and crushed his assistant coaches in fierce embraces, roaring wordlessly!
The substitutes had all surged to the touchline, waving towels and water bottles, jumping, celebrating wildly.
In this moment, the Amsterdam Arena wasn't a football stadium—it was an erupting volcano.
On the other side: Arctic ice.
Football's two extremes were laid bare.
Moraes pulled the ball from the net with weary resignation. Captain Enzo Pérez tried clapping his hands to rally the team, but his movements were mechanical, his shouts were swallowed by the tidal wave of noise—pale, powerless.
Up front, Cardozo and Salvio stood motionless, staring at their own goal with glazed eyes, unable to process what had happened in such a short span.
The massive section of Benfica red had been struck mute. The thunderous support was cut off as if someone had severed its throat, replaced by a united gasp followed by suffocating silence.
Thousands of waving flags drooped like funeral shrouds. Supporters frozen in place, hands on heads, faces locked in expressions of shock, anguish, and helpless desperation.
The red sea had been flash-frozen, nothing left but spreading permafrost.
Jorge Jesus stood motionless on the touchline, hands buried deep in his trouser pockets, face ashen, lips pressed into a bloodless line.
His gaze bored into the pitch like he could physically will a solution into existence.
What should he do?
What could Benfica do?
He had no answer.
Like Bastia, many Benfica supporters couldn't make the trip to the Netherlands. They watched from bars, from living rooms across Portugal.
When Julien's strike bulged the net, pubs and living rooms throughout the country seemed to hit mute simultaneously.
At the Luz bar in Lisbon, a middle-aged man in a vintage Benfica shirt slammed his beer down so hard the glass shattered, golden liquid was exploding across the table.
He buried both hands in his hair, voice breaking: "I knew it! I fucking knew it! The curse is real! It won't let us go!"
Others wore expressions of grim acceptance and resignation.
"Mister Guttmann, we're sorry! We know we were wrong! Please release us from this curse! The club should have given you that contract—you deserved it!
"I'm going to Guttmann's grave right now to leave flowers! Who's coming with me?! We have to do something to break this!"
Some wanted to join but didn't want to miss the broadcast. So, one fan raised his glass high and poured beer onto the table, the floor.
"To Guttmann!"
The gesture caught on. Others followed suit.
Amber liquid spread across tabletops, soaking through scattered napkins and food crumbs, forming winding rivers that dripped steadily onto the floor accompanied by the thick, bitter aroma of hops and malt.
But others dismissed the superstition with contempt.
They didn't believe in curses—it was just a bitter old man's spiteful words when he didn't get paid!
One supporter snapped: "It's purely tactical! Jesus is a fucking idiot! He knows they have De Rocca, that counter-attacking monster, and he still pushes the defensive line up that high? Stupid!
And what's our striker doing? Cardozo just stands there like a statue while their defender hugs him—where's the fight? Where's the strength?
Look at their striker! Now that's what a goal-scorer looks like!"
Meanwhile, Portuguese social media exploded with Benfica fans comments mixing despair, rage, superstition, and fading hope.
"Nearly half a century. Every final is the same recurring nightmare. We're not playing the opponent—we're playing fate itself."
"It's over. Same script every time. We'll never win a European final again. This is Benfica's destiny.
"Congratulations Bastia—you have a god who can decide matches.
"We just have demons we can't shake."
"I am turning off the TV. My heart can't take it. When I wake up tomorrow, I hope this was just a bad dream."
Guttmann's name and the word "curse" appeared with alarming frequency.
For countless Benfica supporters unable to attend, this night felt like being buried alive under the familiar weight of final-phobia—that bone-deep terror that had haunted them for decades.
As Bastia finished celebrating and walked back toward the center circle, the commentator finally emerged from his passionate eruption:
"This goal has essentially pronounced two completely different fates.
For Bastia, a 2-0 scoreline in a European final means one hand is already touching the cold metal of the trophy. Team morale will reach unprecedented heights. Their defense will become even more stubborn with this cushion. And their counter-attacks remain lethal because they have Julien.
For Benfica, this is a hammer blow that shatters the soul!
Their high-press aggression hasn't produced a goal—instead, they've been stabbed through the heart twice. The shadow of the 'Guttmann Curse' will now settle over every player's mind like a nightmare.
Their tactical system faces collapse: keep attacking and risk a devastating third goal, or play conservatively and effectively surrender. A brutal dilemma with no good answer.
And the architect of all this? Julien De Rocca!
How do we define him?
Perhaps he's the perfect fusion of angel and devil!
To Bastia, he's the savior in blue, a deity descended upon Amsterdam! He rescued them from defensive desperation with two golden goals, laying the path to glory.
He embodies a century of Corsican football dreams.
But to Benfica, he's the devil himself—born specifically to crush their hopes! Cold, efficient, merciless. He's torn their defense apart with surgical cruelty, grinding their pride into the dirt.
He makes every horrific story about the 'curse' feel terrifyingly real.
He's both the angel who creates miracles and the demon who delivers despair.
This is football's essence. And this is Julien De Rocca's ultimate portrait—a player whose individual brilliance tips the scales of an entire final, defining the heartbeats of both sets of supporters in completely opposite directions."
In the stands, France's legends wore broad smiles.
Especially Deschamps who was beaming like a man who'd won the lottery.
The others felt a sense of pride as fellow Frenchmen, basking in reflected glory.
But Deschamps was different.
Julien was his star player. His weapon.
The stronger this core became, the better France's chances at next year's World Cup. This directly impacted his future.
Two other men watched Julien with particular interest: Le Graët and Platini.
One was the French Football Federation president; the other, UEFA president.
Le Graët sighed. "Shame a player like this won't stay in France. If he were at PSG, it would mean so much more for French football."
Platini shook his head. "Young players want to test themselves abroad. It's natural."
He'd left for Juventus early in his own career, so he understood Julien completely.
Ligue 1's competitiveness was simply too low.
Honestly, even with PSG's massive investment, Platini doubted they'd see results anytime soon.
But he hoped Julien would transfer to a Champions League club. That would guarantee massive viewership next season!
He was certain Julien would make exactly that move. What ambitious young player didn't crave the biggest stages?
After tasting Europa League final glory, potentially winning the trophy—he'd naturally hunger for more.
For the Champions League.
Le Graët couldn't argue with Platini's logic, though he lamented the lost marketing opportunity for Ligue 1.
Now he could only hope Julien would deliver something special for France at next year's World Cup.
Meanwhile, the Portuguese legends in attendance looked deflated.
Especially those who'd experienced Benfica's previous European final defeats—this hurt on a personal level.
They didn't believe in the curse. But in this moment, even their materialist convictions wavered slightly.
On the pitch, the match continued.
Benfica's players were visibly rattled now.
Their attacks lacked conviction. Instead, they'd begun instinctively dropping deeper, trying to stabilize the scoreline.
But this opened space for Bastia to attack.
42nd minute. Rothen combined with De Bruyne down the right flank, pushing into Benfica territory.
Spotting Julien, Rothen played the pass.
Julien prepared to receive with his back to goal, but Rodrigo pressed tight from behind, arms covertly wrapping around him, using every trick to disrupt his control.
Julien felt the cynical contact.
He snorted internally.
Sometimes he genuinely hated playing against South American players.
Feigning to shield the ball, Julien used his right elbow to casually dislodge Rodrigo's interfering arms while his left foot trapped the ball precisely.
Rodrigo shoved harder. Julien absorbed the contact cleverly, then dragged the ball sideways—Rodrigo stumbled and nearly fell.
Julien immediately turned and drove forward.
Rodrigo scrambled up, furious, and crashed into Julien's shoulder from the side with malicious intent. Julien went down.
WHISTLE!
Kuipers called the foul on Rodrigo.
Rodrigo threw up his hands, jabbering protests in Portuguese.
Julien shot him one cold glance, not bothering to argue, and prepared to take the free kick.
Then veteran Rothen charged in like an avenging angel.
He shoved Rodrigo hard, getting chest-to-chest, roaring in French-accented English: "Back off! Your dirty tricks end now!"
Rodrigo staggered backward, ready to retaliate—
But teammate Enzo Pérez grabbed him and pulled him away.
Rothen didn't budge, tattooed arms tense, eyes locked on Rodrigo like a predator sizing up prey.
BOOOOO!
Both sets of supporters erupted in jeers—Bastia fans were targeting Rodrigo, Benfica fans were venting frustration at everyone.
The two factions began acoustically battling each other.
Referee Kuipers intervened, issuing stern warnings to both sides.
As Rothen walked away, he tapped his temple meaningfully, fixing Rodrigo with one last warning glare.
Julien clasped hands with Rothen who grinned back at him.
Julien glanced at Benfica's increasingly agitated players. This incident was just one symptom of their mental balance tipping.
The more they tattered, the calmer Julien became.
He knew: he couldn't lose focus. This match still had opportunities to exploit!
Play resumed.
But with Benfica completely retreating after their mental collapse, Bastia temporarily couldn't find quality chances.
After two minutes of stoppage time, Kuipers blew the whistle ending the first half!
Both teams trudged toward the tunnel with vastly different emotions weighing on their shoulders.
In the away dressing room, Jorge Jesus' expression remained carved from stone. The first thing he did was drag the tactical board to the center of the room and address his players with ice-cold intensity:
"Second half, we must score! We need goals!!"
Jesus had made his decision.
Intensify the attack.
It was all or nothing.
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