The Bastia section of the Amsterdam Arena detonated once more.
"GOAL! Julien! 3-0!"
"Hat-trick! A final hat-trick! He's a god! He's Bastia's god!"
Tens of thousands of voices erupted from the deepest chambers of their chests, tearing through Amsterdam's night sky!
Supporters in the stands grabbed each other by the collars, shaking wildly with red-rimmed eyes, "Hat-trick! Hat-trick!" Their shouts and sobs were intertwined, releasing fifty years of pent-up anguish.
This scoreline—it was the exact reverse of what they'd lost thirty-five years ago.
In this moment, they weren't celebrating a goal.
They were destroying history.
They weren't cheering victory.
They were burying the cold night of 1978.
After scoring, Julien sprinted to the corner flag. Grinning widely, he held up three fingers on one hand and one finger on the other toward the camera.
Signaling the hat-trick.
The first hat-trick in Europa League final history!!
This image broadcast across the world.
Commentary booths throughout Europe erupted!
The TF1 commentator shouted ecstatically: "Hat-trick! Julien De Rocca! History's trampled beneath his feet!
Ladies and gentlemen, we are witnessing brand-new European football history! The first-ever Europa League final hat-trick! Written by an eighteen-year-old French teenager beneath Amsterdam's night sky in the most incredible fashion!
3-0! This scoreline has nearly killed all remaining doubt!
Look at Benfica's players' eyes! The fire that once burned there has been completely extinguished, replaced only by shock and despair. Julien's third goal is like a massive hammer, utterly shattering every shred of their comeback belief!
And for Bastia, for all of Corsica, this goal represents the culmination of thirty-five years of waiting and redemption! If this scoreline holds, they won't just win the trophy—they'll do it in absolutely dominant fashion, etching their name eternally into European football's annals!
Julien De Rocca! Before tonight, he was a talent. After tonight, he is a legend! Single-handedly, he has carried an entire team to the summit of Europe! This hat-trick will become like Pelé's smile or Maradona's Hand of God, will be a defining image replayed for decades to come!
The match may still have time remaining, but history has already been written! Let us remember this moment!"
This was Bastia's moment.
Tonight, the goddess of football smiled upon them.
Hadzibegic finally lost his composure, roaring toward the sky, punching the air, unable to release the emotion surging through him.
He embraced his assistants tightly while roaring and gasping.
"Easy, Faruk—I can't breathe!" Dominique gasped until Hadzibegic finally loosened his grip.
They exchanged glances and laughed.
This match held so many firsts for each of them.
At the tunnel entrance, Chataigner and the other Bastia staff witnessed the scene and roared with all their might.
Though the tunnel's shadows concealed them, nothing could dim Julien's glowing brilliance.
After the celebration subsided, Chataigner—the former iron-willed center-back pressed the back of his hand desperately against his mouth. But his violently trembling shoulders and tears slipping through his fingers betrayed him.
He gazed at the young figure surrounded by teammates on the pitch, murmuring in a voice only he could hear: "A true golden phoenix has flown from Fontaine Spring..."
Then he drew a deep breath, wiped away his tears, and his face transformed into a smile mixing boundless pride with a trace of bittersweetness.
Some people are like that—they laugh until they cry, cry until they laugh.
There were also the De Rocca family in the stands, Zidane, Le Graët, scouts and directors from around the world watching this match.
And Bastia, in Corsica.
Calm and madness, tears and roars, individual pride and collective euphoria—in every corner where Bastia supporters existed, these emotions collided violently, weaving together into a symphony called miracle.
On the pitch, Julien was completely engulfed by teammates.
Even Martínez sprinted the length of the field to embrace him.
They roared wildly together.
Those minutes under Benfica's unyielding pressure had been genuinely difficult.
"Thank God, we have you!" Rothen ruffled Julien's hair, unable to hide the excitement in his eyes.
Julien embraced and high-fived each teammate, accepting their praise.
Then they turned together toward the center circle.
Meanwhile, Julien's goal had utterly shattered every last shred of Benfica's belief and strength. The deep red camp fell into a deathly, collapsing silence.
Players stood at the center circle waiting to restart.
Hands on hips. Eyes blank.
Manager Jorge Jesus didn't rage on. He stood like a statue suddenly petrified, frozen at the technical area's edge.
In the supporters' section, some began to cry—not roaring sobs, but suppressed, despairing whimpers.
In the executive boxes, Benfica's club management sat ashen-faced. One removed his glasses, wearily pinching the bridge of his nose. Another slammed shut the dossier in his hands—a jarring sound followed by long silence.
In this moment, it was as if someone had pressed mute on everyone connected to Benfica.
When confronted with something inexplicable, people often believe what they choose to believe.
They didn't think it was tactics or personnel decisions.
They believed it was the curse.
"Guttmann"—that name haunted every mind like a ghost. Or rather, this was no longer a curse but an inescapable destiny.
The deep red faith was extinguished completely beneath Amsterdam's night sky.
Whistle!
Play resumed.
Benfica's attacks felt like struggling through mud—every pass carried a heavy sense of futility. The clock had reached the sixtieth minute.
Everyone grew increasingly frantic.
They wanted to score.
They wanted to claw back the deficit—fast!
But the more frantic they became, the less their combinations worked.
Mistakes multiplied.
They barely withstood Bastia's counterattacks.
Yet their own attacks wouldn't emerge.
A vicious cycle.
In the 64th minute, Matić received the ball in midfield. He looked up, searching for an outlet, but every passing lane was covered in blue.
In that moment of hesitation, Kanté who'd been shadowing him all match appeared like a ghost from behind.
One precise, fierce but clean tackle stripped the ball from Matić's feet.
The instant the ball was poked away, something inside Matić, a thread stretched tense all match snapped!
A mixture of humiliation, rage, and utter despair consumed him.
He didn't try to recover or reposition. Instead, off-balance and knowing he couldn't win the ball, he lunged forward almost out of control. His studs caught Kanté's planted ankle just as the Frenchman rose from the challenge.
Matić couldn't pull out in time. Or rather, in that moment, pulling out never crossed his mind.
"Ah!"
The moment contact registered, reality flooded back. Kanté collapsed, clutching his ankle in genuine pain.
This was real agony.
Kanté usually didn't go down from normal fouls.
Whistle!
Referee Kuipers' whistle screeched!
He sprinted toward the incident without hesitation, right hand already raised high with a yellow card.
Then came the unforgiving red!
Second yellow—sent off!
Bastia players immediately swarmed Matić. Rothen, always hot-tempered, shoved the stunned Serbian, pointing furiously at the downed Kanté and roaring: "What the fuck did you do?! Are you trying to end this kid's career?!"
Julien arrived quickly but didn't join the confrontation. He immediately checked on Kanté, raising his hand urgently toward the medical staff on the sideline.
Kanté grimaced, insisting he was fine and trying to stand.
Julien held him down. "Wait. Don't move. Let the physio check you first. No rush."
Kanté trusted Julien implicitly.
He waited for the medical team.
Meanwhile, the referee quickly defused the brewing scuffle.
Matić didn't argue. He had no energy left to clash with Bastia's players. He didn't even glance at the fallen Kanté.
Standing motionless, he stared blankly at the sky, wiped the sweat from his face, then turned and strode toward the tunnel without looking back, disappearing into the dark entrance.
The action had nothing to do with tactics or the result. It was pure collapse—the final, despairing death knell for Benfica's catastrophic night.
Down to ten men. 0-3 down.
The match's last glimmer of suspense seemed extinguished by that red card.
When Kanté hit the ground, the entire Bastia section erupted in deafening fury mixed with boos. Tens of thousands rose as one, arms pointing angrily at the scene, voices unleashing the most savage curses.
As Matić walked off, Bastia supporters mockingly waved goodbye in synchronized waves.
Along with plenty of cold taunts.
"If you can't handle losing, don't play football!"
"Go back to Lisbon!"
"That tackle was straight-up malicious! Are you trying to injure him, loser!"
"Fuck off and watch us lift the trophy over your corpses!"
After the brief mockery faded, a deeper, more satisfied emotion rippled through the crowd.
Fans embraced and high-fived, faces were glowing with the certainty of assured victory. They couldn't believe, playing with an extra man, up 3-0—there was any way to lose now.
At that moment, the TF1 commentator's voice brightened considerably: "Red card! An indisputable red card! Nemanja Matić has been sent off! For Benfica, this is catastrophic—adding insult to devastating injury!"
"This red card has killed the match! It doesn't just mean Benfica will play the remaining twenty-plus minutes a man down. More importantly, it has shattered the team's last shred of spirit and dignity.
Matić, the midfield anchor and spiritual leader, exits the final in such an irrational manner. It's like a premature surrender, a complete mental collapse under immense pressure. He's let down his teammates and the loyal supporters still singing in the stands.
This action puts the bitterest, ugliest punctuation mark on Benfica's nightmarish evening. 0-3 down, down to ten men, facing a Bastia side this defensively solid and lethally counterattacking—the possibility of a comeback is now zero.
For Benfica, the match's remaining meaning is no longer about competing for the trophy. It's about avoiding an even heavier defeat and salvaging the last scraps of dignity. This is a truly lamentable moment. What should have been a spectacular final has ended prematurely in such disappointing fashion.
But for Bastia, the path to the championship podium has become a completely unobstructed highway. They might even consider breaking final scoreline records.
The current Europa League final record margin is from the 1992/93 season—Juventus 6-1 over Dortmund. But note, that was over two legs before the format changed to a single-match final.
Since adopting the one-match format, the largest margin is from the 2005/06 season at PSV Eindhoven's home ground—Sevilla's 4-0 demolition of English side Middlesbrough.
Right now, Bastia are just one goal away from matching that record!"
At this moment, the Amsterdam Arena held silent despair and roaring jubilation.
These extremes collided and tore through the stadium, forming football's most brutal yet beautiful scene.
One side: the icy silence of collapsed faith.
The other: the scorching eruption of imminent dreams.
Football's most extreme emotions were on full display.
Zidane and Deschamps absorbed the contrasting atmospheres—Bastia's euphoria, Benfica's deathly stillness.
Zidane smiled; his eyes narrowed. "It's over, Didier. The trophy belongs to Bastia."
He turned; eyes gleaming with wonder. "Honestly, if someone had told me a year ago that a kid from Fontaine Spring, fresh out of a juvenile detention would lead a Ligue 2 side to domestic domination and European glory, I'd have thought they were insane."
He leaned forward, gaze fixed on Julien. "But look at him. Five trophies! Coupe de France, Ligue 2, Trophée des Champions, Ligue 1, and now the Europa League. He's single-handedly redefined the word 'miracle.' This kind of carry performance, this total dominance—even I feel jealous."
Deschamps' expression remained composed, but his eyes reflected equal shock and profound emotion. "This isn't just a miracle, Zinedine. This is the aura of a true champion. Julien is a trophy-collecting machine. Now I just hope he brings this magic to the national team. We need a champion too."
Zidane smiled faintly.
But Deschamps' eyebrow furrowed slightly with concern. "My only hope right now is that N'Golo is okay. That stamp was vicious. This kid is just as important to France's future. We can't afford any setbacks."
Zidane's expression turned serious. "He should be fine. Those kinds of impacts usually aren't too serious."
Indeed, after the medical check, the physio helped Kanté to his feet—there were no major issue.
Every Bastia teammate breathed a sigh of relief. With Kanté unharmed, their mindset had completely shifted.
They felt an overwhelming sense of advantage.
There wasn't much verbal communication among players—just knowing glances and brief gestures.
They radiated a confidence bordering on arrogance. Victory was already in the bag. Now the task was simple: use the most stable, professional approach to safely deliver this fruit to the finish line.
Kanté was fine.
But Jorge Jesus' problems were immense. The Portuguese manager stood on the sideline, and if not for his eyes still tracking the match, you'd think he'd stopped breathing entirely.
This was a rout.
By now, even Jesus saw no path to a comeback.
Whistle!
Bastia restarted.
Jesus shook his head and sank back into the dugout. He felt exhausted.
So, so tired...
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