The podium stood assembled at the center pitch, bathed in dazzling floodlights.
The massive Europa League trophy gleamed under the stadium beams, like a modern Holy Grail catching every flash and reflection, its silver surface was almost too bright to look at directly.
The PA system erupted with ceremonial orchestral music, even briefly suppressing the carnival atmosphere and transforming it into something deeper—a burning, almost sacred anticipation that pressed against every chest in the arena.
The award ceremony was about to begin.
Despite its familiar rituals—the well-known anthem, the velvet-draped podium, players ascending in sequence, the glittering trophy—each ceremony felt like witnessing something for the first time. Breath-catching. Unrepeatable.
Because every second that trophy is raised writes a legend that will never be duplicated.
That's why no one ever feels it's repetitive. No one grows bored. The ceremony may be ancient, but the glory? The glory is always brand new.
The Benfica players moved with heads bowed, forming a silent line as they slowly climbed the steps carpeted in deep blue. Their footsteps were heavy, sluggish. UEFA President Michel Platini placed the silver runners-up medals around their necks one by one, but not a single player looked down at it.
The medals hung against their deep crimson jerseys, looking dull and somehow accusatory in the light.
Captain Enzo Pérez's eyes swept briefly across the golden trophy as he received his medal. His Adam's apple bobbed violently once, then he quickened his pace, finishing the procession as quickly as dignity would allow.
The entire process was terrifyingly quiet, interspersed only by scattered, sympathetic applause from the Benfica section—sounds quickly swallowed by the enormous silence pressing down on them all.
Then—
"The champions—BASTIA!"
The announcer's voice detonated like a lit fuse!
The Bastia players exploded in thunderous celebration, pushing and jostling each other as they surged toward the podium! Every face radiated the purest, most uninhibited joy—grins so wide they looked painful, eyes bright with tears and triumph.
UEFA President Platini stood at the podium's center, smiling warmly as he shook hands with each player and personally draped the heavy gold medals around their necks.
When veteran Rothen stepped forward, Platini didn't immediately present the award. Instead, he gripped both of Rothen's shoulders, leaned close to his ear, and spoke softly for several seconds. Tears broke through Rothen's defenses instantly, flooding down his weathered face. He nodded vigorously, bowed deeply, then accepted his medal with trembling hands.
Kanté took his medal and, with naive curiosity, bit down on it experimentally before flashing his trademark shy smile, triggering a burst of laughter from the teammates behind him.
De Bruyne and Lukaku received their medals together, arms slung around each other's shoulders. Lukaku swung his arm so enthusiastically he nearly knocked De Bruyne off balance.
Then came Faruk Hadzibegic, the previously unknown coach who had ridden this grassroots miracle all the way to Europe's summit, now standing before everyone—validated, vindicated.
Finally—
The moment everyone was waiting for.
Captain Julien De Rocca stepped in front of Platini.
The entire stadium erupted in rhythmic, booming chants: "JULIEN! JULIEN! JULIEN!"
Platini didn't reach for the medal immediately. Instead, he opened his arms and pulled Julien into a powerful embrace that lasted several seconds, pounding his back firmly—as if completing some ceremonial passing of the torch between eras.
"You did it, son," Platini said, his voice filled with emotion. "You've brought honor to every French footballer. Remember this feeling—the journey you've walked is worth more than any trophy. Now go. Enjoy the era that belongs to you."
Only then did he solemnly place the final gold medal around Julien's neck.
"Thank you," Julien said softly, his words were heartfelt as he addressed the French legend.
The ultimate moment had arrived.
Julien approached the Holy Grail itself—that enormous, gleaming Europa League trophy positioned on its pedestal at the podium's center.
He drew a deep breath, extended both hands, and lifted the Europa League trophy.
Unlike the Champions League's big-eared cup, the Europa League trophy was cylindrical—like an oversized goblet, and was surprisingly heavy in his grip.
His teammates had already formed three rows before the "champions' arch," their faces electric with anticipation.
Julien carried the trophy to the front position, hunching slightly, taking tiny bouncing steps as everyone around him laughed and braced themselves—
The Bastia supporters began a spontaneous, ear-splitting countdown:
"FIVE!
FOUR!
THREE!
TWO!
ONE!"
The instant "ONE" dropped, Julien exploded up, thrusting the massive trophy high overhead until his arms locked completely straight!
Instantly—
Golden confetti cannons fired from all sides!
A torrential rain of gold poured from above!
"We Are The Champions" blasted through the stadium speakers, the anthem was thundering off every surface!
Countless camera flashes turned the night sky white as midday!
"BASTIA ARE THE CHAMPIONS!"
Every Bastia staff member rushed toward the center, joining the players as countless hands reached up to support the trophy's base, sharing the supreme weight together!
Julien stood in the golden rain and deafening roar, head tilted back, lips pressed tight, savoring this single, perfect moment.
Click-click-click!
The moment was captured forever.
As the flash-storm of the official photo subsided and the noise briefly receded, Julien lifted the trophy with both hands and, without hesitation, turned to pass it to De Bruyne beside him.
De Bruyne accepted it carefully.
He didn't raise it immediately. Instead, he lowered his head slightly, fingertips slowly caressing the cold metal surface, tracing every intricate engraving. His gaze lingered on the trophy for a long moment, as if conducting a final, silent conversation with an old friend about to depart—this trophy represented the most glorious chapter of his nomadic career, the perfect parting gift before a grand farewell.
Finally, he drew a deep breath—tinged with barely perceptible longing and acceptance and passed the trophy steadily to the next man.
The trophy continued its journey through waves of euphoria.
Kanté received it with a bashful grin. Lukaku enthusiastically planted a loud kiss on its surface, triggering laughter all around.
Eventually, the trophy reached Rothen's hands.
The atmosphere changed immediately.
All the noise seemed muted the instant he took hold of it, as if someone had pressed a pause button.
He didn't smile. Didn't shout. He simply used those hands marked by decades of football, his scarred knuckles, thickened joints—to grip the trophy, caressing its surface again and again as if trying to memorize every curve through touch alone.
Slowly, worshipfully, he pressed his forehead heavily against the cold crown of the cup and closed his eyes. His shoulders trembled.
In the final chapter of his career, every regret and every fulfillment collided thunderously in that silent contact.
Rothen lifted his head, his gaze finding Faruk Hadzibegic through the crowd.
The coach walked forward slowly. But he didn't reach for the trophy. Instead, he extended his right hand—not to caress the cup, but to firmly pat Rothen's arm where it clutched the trophy.
It was an acknowledgment between men. Gratitude without words.
Then Hadzibegic's eyes swept across all his players. Finally, he raised one hand and touched the trophy's base with just his fingertip.
Once. Quick and restrained, as if touching a priceless artifact—or simply confirming its reality.
Then he immediately withdrew his hand.
"Don't stop now, boys," he said, voice carrying over the noise. "Go share this with our fans. They've been waiting thirty-five years for this moment!"
"Let's go!" Julien called to his teammates.
They surged forward with the trophy like a blue tidal wave, rushing toward the Bastia fans in the supporters' section.
This time, Julien hoisted the trophy high, offering it to Bastia's most devoted believers.
BOOM!
"BASTIA!"
After the fans' roar came the anthem—"Allez Bastia"—sung with infinite pride and glory soaking every note.
In this moment, thirty-five years of waiting, every drop of sweat and tear, transformed into the dazzling light reflecting off the trophy and the golden confetti dancing through the air.
A Corsican football legend was forged completely this night.
After celebrating pitchside, stadium staff began guiding players back to the tunnel.
At the tunnel entrance, club president Chataigner stood with arms open wide, embracing every sweat-soaked, medal-gleaming player with fierce bear hugs, rapid-fire congratulations whispered in each ear.
When it was Julien's turn, Chataigner held the embrace longer than the others.
He understood—this championship was Julien's parting gift to Bastia. They would likely never experience another moment like this.
This was the legend Julien De Rocca left behind.
The instant the locker room door slammed shut, an explosion erupted inside—roars several times more ferocious than anything heard on the pitch, it was a complete unleashing of everything held back!
Champagne corks fired toward the ceiling like artillery shells, golden liquid spraying wildly in every direction!
Songs, screams, crying, the percussion of clinking bottles—all of it flooded the cramped space until the walls themselves seemed to vibrate.
Meanwhile, on the distant island of Corsica, the entire city of Bastia erupted into citywide carnival!
Every plaza, bar, and street overflowed with people draped in blue. Car horns blared endlessly. Church bells rang out for football.
Massive screens replayed Julien lifting the trophy on continuous loop, each showing triggering fresh waves of thunderous cheers.
In this moment, glory transcended the boundaries of a single stadium.
Through broadcast waves and raw emotion, it connected the grass of Amsterdam, the champagne-soaked locker room, and the streets of Corsica—completing a grand coronation ceremony that reached across the sea.
Sunset Cafe Bar
Bertrand stood with one foot on the bar counter, the other planted in an ice bucket, hoisting a massive beer stein like it was the championship trophy itself. He roared at the packed crowd of patrons:
"TONIGHT! There is no boss here! Only brothers! Drinks on the house—ALL OF THEM! Free flowing! We don't stop until we drop! FOR BASTIA! CHEERS!"
Glass after glass of pastis went down. His head swam with Jacques' old words—how he'd hoped to see Bastia win a trophy in his lifetime.
But Jacques never got to see it.
Never would.
Stade Armand Cesari
Roncaglia, Bastia's youth academy player, stood with all his youth team teammates at the highest railing of the stadium. They'd stripped off their training jerseys and were waving them wildly overhead, leading the massive crowd in the plaza below in booming renditions of the club anthem.
Screaming Julien's name until their throats were raw and hoarse.
His face was streaked with tears—tears mixed with longing, fervor, and determination. Julien and that trophy had lit a clear, tangible path to his future. If Julien could do it, so could he.
City Hall Plaza
Martin, the usually laid-back guy with mediocre alcohol tolerance—now stood on top of the central fountain statue!
He wasn't waving a scarf. He was swinging a massive, tattered 1978 Bastia team flag—an old relic from his father's collection.
He banged a dented copper pot he'd found somewhere with all his strength, creating ear-splitting noise. His singing was completely off-key, but it inspired the loudest sing-along and cheers in the entire plaza.
His wife stood below, simultaneously crying and laughing, trying to coax him down. He waved the flag triumphantly like a victorious child.
There were so many more moments like this—an entire island resonating as one.
On street corners, complete strangers embraced and high-fived. From balconies, elderly residents smiled as they scattered flower petals and streamers. At sea, every boat sounded its horn simultaneously, the combined blast was mixing with the city's cheers and shaking the Mediterranean night sky.
The trophy was still in Netherlands, but its spirit had already melted completely into every heartbeat, every breath across Corsica.
Tonight would be a sleepless night.
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