Benfica Locker Room
"0-2 isn't the end—it's the starting point for forty-five minutes of creating a miracle!"
Jorge Jesus slammed his marker against the tactical board, the sharp crack cut through the heavy silence. "Forget all that noise outside, forget everything! Second half, we do one thing and one thing only—attack! We drown them in our offensive!"
"Salvio!" He jabbed a finger toward the right winger. "I want you like a knife piercing their ribs. Reduce your defensive duties—your only job is to pin down their fullback, make them afraid to push forward. This is do-or-die!"
"Gaitán, commit harder to those inside cuts. Switch positions with Rodrigo—disrupt their defensive shape!"
"Enzo, your passing needs to be faster, more daring! Take risks with through balls, play them in behind!"
"Both fullbacks!" His voice reached its crescendo. "Push up! Attack like wingers! Pin them in their own half completely!"
He paused, letting the tactical instructions sink into every mind. Then his tone shifted, taking on an almost tragic, rallying tone.
"I know what you're thinking about. That curse. That half-century nightmare." His voice dropped to a growl. "The media calls us tragic heroes destined to fail. But I'm telling you—fuck that curse!"
He drove his fist into the tactical board. "Words are spoken by men, and records are broken by men! Tonight, in Amsterdam, I want you to rip Guttmann's name off our gravestone with your bare hands!"
"Forty-five minutes! With your running, your passing, your fighting spirit—turn this stadium into our hell and their graveyard!"
"Make everyone who says we can never win a final shut their mouths forever!"
Finally, he swept his gaze across the room, voice was hoarse but sharp: "Either we leave here with a comeback that'll be remembered for a hundred years, or we die fighting on this pitch. There is no middle ground!"
"Second half—go out there and take back what belongs to us!"
Veteran Luisão was the first to surge to his feet. He ripped off his sweat-soaked jersey and hurled it to the ground, his bare, muscley torso exposed, eyes reddening as he roared: "Let's fucking go! What are we afraid of? We've got nothing left to lose!"
"Count me in!"
"Let's go to war!"
The decisive voices of Benfica's players echoed through the locker room. After grinding through an entire season to reach this point, no one wanted to be a loser.
Liverpool had pulled off their miracle from 0-3 down. Bastia wore the same red—they could write their own Amsterdam miracle.
At Bastia Locker Room
Benfica's tactical approach was obvious.
Unless they chose to surrender.
On Hadzibegic's tactical board, two tight parallel lines represented a compact 4-4-2 defensive formation.
"Listen up, lads," he began, his gaze sweeping across every player. "We've been here before—holding a halftime lead. I trust you're already used to these moments. Yes, we're forty-five minutes away from making history."
Around the room, the players smiled. They'd won the Coupe de France, Trophée des Champions, and Ligue 1 title—each time, they'd been ahead at the break.
Hadzibegic's tone remained calm.
"What will they do in the second half? They'll go mad. They'll come at us like a flood. It's their only choice. And our choice is—"
He rapped his knuckles hard against the defensive formation on the board. "Become the hardest rocks and shatter their waves against us!"
His eyes burned as they met each resolute face.
"Kevin, drop back ten meters. Your job isn't to create anymore—it's to intercept and launch counterattacks. When you get the ball, don't dribble. Use your most accurate long balls to find Julien and Romelu up front."
"N'Golo, Rothen—you lock down the area at the top of the box. Against our deep block, they'll try long shots. Don't give them an inch. Force them to cross, never let them shoot from distance or cut inside."
"Back four—you move like a single wall. Choplin, you direct them. Mind your spacing and compress the space!"
With the defensive instructions delivered, Hadzibegic turned to the attack.
"Romelu, your job is to pin their center-backs, apply maximum pressure, and use your frame as a central point—or bulldoze their defensive line."
"Julien," Hadzibegic finally addressed his ace, "you're the best finisher in the world in my book. Stay up front, conserve energy, wait for your moment. I believe one chance is all you'll need to kill any hope they have."
"Got it!"
Julien nodded firmly, and the rest of the squad followed with determined nods of their own.
They were one step from making history.
No one wanted to stumble at the finish line.
"They'll have possession, they'll have shots, they might even score." Hadzibegic openly acknowledged his conservative approach. "But what we want is the final result. Withstand forty-five minutes of pressure, and we etch our names into history!"
He surveyed the room one last time, his voice was low but heavy as stone.
"When you go back out there, make Amsterdam remember: it's not only attack that earns applause. Perfect defense, calm patience, and a lethal counterattack can bring the greatest victory of all."
"Fight for each other. Fight for everyone who believes in us."
He didn't shout slogans—just clapped his hands firmly.
The players' breathing grew heavier in the locker room, joy was gradually transforming into stone-like focus and determination.
They knew the second half would be an even more brutal battle.
No one surrenders in a final.
During the break, the Bastia supporters' section remained consumed by euphoria, tears, and disbelief.
This emotion didn't just sweep through the Amsterdam Arena—it ignited across the broadcast to distant Corsica, thousands of miles away.
Everyone spoke of one name: Julien De Rocca.
"Julien is our King!"
"He tore Benfica's defense to shreds! They can't stop him!"
"Watch—the whole world will remember his name! He's our hero!"
At the Stade Armand Cesari in Corsica, the atmosphere burned even hotter and wilder than in Amsterdam.
The massive projection screen replayed Julien's two goals on a loop.
Each replay triggered another tsunami of roaring and stomping that shook the entire stadium!
Beer fountains arced into the air, glittering like golden rain under the floodlights.
A middle-aged man in a vintage jersey video-called his friend at the Amsterdam Arena. He aimed the camera at the boiling stands, shouting through tears: "Can you hear us?! This is our home! Take our voices with you to the Netherlands! Tell Julien—we couldn't be there, but we're with him!"
Every bar, every plaza in Bastia, every window glowed with the same jubilant noise.
Car horns blared endlessly. The entire island seemed to roar for their team.
All of Corsica was watching.
This wasn't just Bastia's moment—it belonged to every person from Corsica.
Bastia represented Corsica. Bastia represented France.
Julien was a hero to every French supporter.
This half revealed the undeniable brilliance radiating from him.
Liverpool, England
In a hotel conference room in Liverpool's Merseyside capital, David Donne and Abdullah watched the match with their entourage.
At halftime, Abdullah turned to Donne. "See? This is the kind of core player we'll have. Haha! Once we complete the Liverpool acquisition, we'll be a genuinely competitive Premier League side!"
Donne watched Julien's excellence, already envisioning building a team around him—a Champions League-caliber squad.
He smiled. "Of course. We'll create the second Premier League fairy tale right here!"
In his mind, the first fairy tale was Arsenal's Invincibles season.
That remained his eternal dream.
At London
Wenger sighed quietly.
Abramovich sat expressionless, his fingers unconsciously tapping the desk.
At Madrid
Florentino Pérez's eyes gleamed. He was seriously considering Real Madrid's pursuit of Julien—he really didn't want to negotiate with Tottenham's chairman Levy again.
Across the city at Atlético's Cerro del Espino training complex, Simeone presented his vision to Cerezo and Gil Marín: how to build around Julien, break the Real Madrid-Barcelona duopoly in La Liga, and conquer Europe.
Fifteen minutes passed quickly.
When both teams re-emerged, the stadium erupted once more.
The commentator's voice crackled with energy against the renewed roar: "Welcome back to the Amsterdam Arena, ladies and gentlemen! The second half of the Europa League final is about to begin!
The first forty-five minutes belonged to Bastia, belonged to Julien De Rocca and his two thunderous goals. But football matches last ninety minutes. The next forty-five will decide everything.
What will Jorge Jesus do? There's only one answer—attack. All-out attack. They have no way back. Only attack can create a miracle! Salvio, Gaitán, Rodrigo—we may witness a Portuguese Eagle unleashing its full offensive instincts!
And Hadzibegic's Bastia?
This season, they've specialized in defensive counterattacks. Atlético, Chelsea, Inter, Tottenham—they all know how resilient Bastia's defense is and how lethal their counters can be.
This will be the ultimate clash of opposites! One side throwing everything forward in desperate pursuit of a comeback. The other, rock-solid and waiting to strike with deadly precision!
Whatever the outcome, tonight promises to be one of the most talked-about Europa League finals in history."
The Amsterdam Arena stands transformed into two oceans of opposing yet equally fierce emotion.
Two extremes collided and burned, painting the Amsterdam night sky in football's most vivid colors.
Julien walked toward the center circle with his teammates.
They slapped hands along the way. At the circle, they formed a huddle, arms over shoulders, leaning in.
As captain, Julien met each nearby face. His voice was steady and firm. "Last forty-five. Let's go! Stay focused!"
"FORZA, BASTIA!!"
They roared as one, then scattered to their positions.
On the other side, Benfica's players conducted their own final rallying cry.
Referee Kuipers urged both teams to hurry. Once everything was ready, he checked the time.
Whistle!
The second half determining the Europa League champion officially began!
The whistle had barely died when Benfica's attack crashed toward Bastia's half like a tsunami, the deep red wave was surging forward with unrelenting fury.
Bastia's players were ready.
They dropped back decisively.
At the same time, they maintained intense physical pressure, refusing to give Benfica comfortable space to organize.
Most of Benfica's squad comprised South American players—technically gifted with excellent short-passing and individual skills.
On the sideline, both managers wore matching expressions of severe concentration.
On the pitch, Benfica quickly worked the ball into Bastia's half. Salvio collected possession on the left wing and drove toward the byline like a blade, forcing his way past his marker before whipping in a cross!
In the box, Cardozo finally escaped Van Dijk with a backward run, rising high to deliver a vicious header. The ball screamed just over the crossbar.
Whoosh!
Benfica supporters groaned in anguish—if they could pull one back early, their comeback hopes would soar!
Bastia fans felt they'd dodged a bullet.
Choplin tapped Van Dijk's shoulder after the ball sailed out, encouraging the youngster not to let the missed clearance affect his mentality.
The thing defenders feared most was losing composure.
Van Dijk, still young, had plenty of experience to gain.
Bastia cleared the ball out.
Benfica pressed forward relentlessly. Bastia's buildup still relied heavily on Rothen and De Bruyne, with only Sidibé offering genuine attacking threat from the fullback positions.
Angoula could defend, but asking him to contribute offensively felt harsh for the former Muay Thai fighter who'd come to football late.
De Bruyne tried to carry the ball forward.
But he was quickly surrounded and dispossessed.
Hadzibegic shook his head from the sideline. He'd told De Bruyne to reduce his dribbling, yet in moments like these, the youngster still tried to push forward.
They wouldn't let him advance so easily.
"Still too young," Hadzibegic muttered, hoping the team could hold firm.
Benfica's assault continued unabated!
Two minutes later, Gaitán and Rodrigo executed a slick one-two at the top of the box before Gaitán unleashed a cold strike!
Bastia's keeper Martínez flew across his goal, palming the shot wide with a desperate one-handed save.
"Mark up!" Martínez roared at his defense, momentarily forgetting his youth. That shot had been completely unmarked.
Bastia's players realized this match wouldn't be easy.
They took deep breaths, steadying themselves.
The corner came in.
This time Van Dijk got ahead to head clear.
Though Cardozo missed the ball, he still crashed heavily into Van Dijk.
Both tumbled to the turf.
Whistle!
The referee called an attacking foul on Benfica.
Cardozo couldn't reach the ball but chose to challenge anyway, it was proof of the desperate fire burning in Benfica's eyes. Every tackle felt reckless, every forward run carried no hesitation.
Van Dijk clutched his ribs where he'd been struck, grimacing in pain.
Cardozo, meanwhile, rose quickly—he'd been the one initiating contact, after all.
The medical team rushed on.
After checking Van Dijk's condition and letting him recover briefly, the physio prepared to help him up, but the young defender lay back down.
"You're not ready yet."
The physio glanced meaningfully at Van Dijk.
Understanding the meaning. Van Dijk grimaced exaggeratedly and stayed down.
Bastia's players seized the opportunity to catch their breath.
Julien walked over to De Bruyne. "They're doubling you. Release the ball quickly. If there's no option, play it back to Rothen—let him go long. We're not building through the ground."
Rothen nodded nearby.
De Bruyne acknowledged his earlier rashness—he'd given the ball away too many times. "Got it. Stay alert up there."
Julien studied Benfica's players.
Under their relentless pressure, the vast space behind their defense had opened like a dangerous, inviting wilderness.
Julien knew exactly what he needed—to exploit that wilderness.
No matter how much time they wasted, Van Dijk eventually rose.
With the physio's support, he walked off the pitch.
Meanwhile, after Bastia restarted, they didn't rush forward—they waited for Van Dijk to return to position. Benfica obviously wouldn't waste this opportunity.
The moment play resumed, they pressed aggressively.
The ball cycled back to Martínez. He didn't dare hold it—despite being Argentine, his footwork wasn't particularly polished at this stage.
Thump!
He launched it long.
The clearance sailed toward the center circle.
Lukaku, with his back to goal near midfield, battled physically with Luisão marking him tightly. They were almost tangled together, but Lukaku's youth and strength overcame.
He managed to cushion the ball down.
Though his first touch pushed it slightly away, his reaction and pace were lightning-quick—he closed the gap in two strides and brought it under control.
Rather than turn, having already spotted Julien sprinting forward during his backward run, he played a sharp pass across!
Rodrigo read Lukaku's intention and launched himself into a desperate sliding challenge.
But Lukaku's pass was too quick—Rodrigo was a fraction late.
Julien had anticipated the moment Martínez cleared. He'd seen the opportunity and exploded forward. Now, facing Lukaku's pass with Gaitán and Melgarejo chasing hard from behind, the entire pitch situation appeared in his mind.
As the ball arrived, Julien didn't stop it—he knocked it forward in one fluid motion.
Then—
Explosive acceleration!
Melgarejo and Gaitán pushed their engines to the limit but couldn't keep pace with Julien.
As Julien drove forward, he angled toward the central area of the penalty box.
Garay rushed across to close him down, trying to get tight.
However—
Julien hit another gear, a second burst of pure speed that left the Argentine international in his trail!
The defender had been specifically warned before the match—Julien was fast but weak in physical duels.
So, his instinct was to use his body.
But Julien gave him no chance for contact!
In a heartbeat, Julien was through, one-on-one with the keeper!
Roar!
Bastia supporters erupted from their seats, necks craning, hands positioned at chest height.
A goal would send them to sky in celebration.
A miss would see those hands clutch their heads in dismay.
It was a ritual.
Now, Moraes abandoned his line, charging desperately toward Julien. They met less than two meters inside the penalty area.
Without breaking stride, Julien feinted right, shifting the keeper's weight, then dragged the ball back left.
That single touch left Moraes completely out of position.
Instinctively, he threw out his right hand to grab at the ball, but Julien's feet were too quick—the keeper's hand struck Julien's ankle instead.
Julien stumbled.
But didn't go down.
This was when they most needed a goal. Outside the box, he'd absolutely have gone down for the red card. But inside the area, with this scoreline, it would likely be a yellow and a penalty.
In this situation, with an open net ahead, why the hell would he go down?!
His enhanced attributes helped him stabilize quickly. Julien braced himself with one hand on the turf, regained his feet before the covering defenders arrived, and slotted the ball into the empty net.
Goal!
3-0!
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