After kickoff, Bastia continued their first-half tactics—deep defensive shape.
Even Julien didn't push too far forward, his position was dropping deeper.
But neither Zanetti nor Cambiasso relaxed their vigilance on him. Julien's breakthrough after breakthrough, sprint after sprint in the first half had made these veterans feel genuinely threatened.
Inevitably, thoughts crept in: "If only I were ten years younger, he wouldn't have beaten me so easily."
Inter's attack improved significantly compared to the first half, much more decisive.
In the 48th minute, just three minutes after restart, Kovačić unleashed a long-range screamer from outside the box, opening Inter's offensive onslaught.
The Croatian youngster's strike had quality, though the pace was slightly slow. Martinez flew through the air to punch it clear.
Palacio followed up, but before he could pounce on the rebound, Van Dijk shouldered into him. The wily Palacio immediately screamed and crumpled, clutching his shin.
Martinez scrambled to his feet and smothered the ball, ignoring the referee's potential whistle—secure possession first.
The referee waved play on, signaling no foul. Palacio should get up.
The Meazza crowd voiced their displeasure at this decision, hurling abuse at the referee and producing a chorus of whistles.
The referee ignored them.
On the touchline, Stramaccioni abandoned his reserved demeanor, and threw his hands up at the pitch. Seeing the referee had no intention of awarding anything, he launched into a tirade.
The fourth official approached to restrain him. Stramaccioni reined himself in slightly, but continued muttering.
A penalty right after halftime would have completely changed the complexion of the match.
Seeing no one paying attention, Palacio spread his arms toward the referee. Finding the official's back turned, he glanced at the linesman, who'd already moved on, following play.
Palacio punched the turf in frustration.
Martinez approached amiably, extending his hand. Palacio looked at it, then accepted, pulling himself up using the keeper's grip.
Back into the battle.
This was merely a small incident in the match's flow. As Bastia pushed forward past the halfway line, De Bruyne's pass toward Julien was intercepted by the tracking Kovačić.
Clap clap clap!
Applause rippled through the stadium. Kovačić was Inter's multi-million-euro purchase from the Croatian league, brought to the Meazza with high expectations from the fans. From his appearances so far, he'd genuinely impressed.
After winning possession, Kovačić immediately launched a counter, spotting Palacio ahead.
THUMP!
He hit a long ball over the top, trying to find Palacio.
However, Palacio, having wasted time on the ground, hadn't repositioned himself beyond Bastia's defensive line in time, leaving him offside.
The linesman's flag shot up immediately.
The referee's whistle followed.
Palacio, frustrated twice in quick sequence, looked visibly annoyed. He raised his hand apologetically toward Kovačić, acknowledging his mistake.
But he'd clearly developed a personal rivalry with Bastia's center-back Van Dijk.
Bastia restarted. But their progression was difficult now. Julien found himself marked tightly in midfield. In just a few minutes, Cambiasso had already fouled him three times.
This time Julien went down again.
After Kanté pulled him up, Julien adjusted his socks. He wore youth-sized shin guards, and Cambiasso's challenge had knocked them askew. Quick readjustment needed.
He'd anticipated this defensive intensity in the second half.
Kanté inquired, "You alright?"
Julien patted his shoulder. "I'm fine. Conserve your energy though—they won't stop coming."
Kanté nodded. But Julien understood Kanté had only absorbed the second half of that advice, not the first.
Sometimes he couldn't fathom where such a small body housed so much energy.
Across all of Bastia, Kanté's defensive contribution in midfield was incalculable.
Without him, they'd concede far more goals.
Pushing aside these thoughts, Julien refocused on the match.
When Inter committed bodies to defending without sparing energy on recovery runs, Bastia's attacking options narrowed considerably. Julien's flank faced concentrated defensive attention. For now, he had few solutions, receiving and immediately recycling possession, constantly probing for openings.
Julien remained confident. He only needed one chance!
As time wore on, Stramaccioni grew increasingly agitated. In the 70th minute, he made his first substitution.
Guarin, who'd been relatively quiet, came off.
In truth, Guarin and Palacio were the pillars of this Inter side. Guarin had forcibly transformed himself from a box-to-box destroyer into an organizing midfielder for the team's benefit.
"Il Terzo Guarín" was beloved by countless Inter supporters.
As Guarin left the pitch, Inter fans gave him applause.
After Guarin departed, number 11 Álvarez replaced him.
Inter continued pressing forward.
Hadzibegic made no personnel changes yet. Unless major problems emerged, he generally avoided rotation in crucial matches like this.
He trusted his players. Of course, this was also because Bastia simply didn't have many quality substitutes available.
Inter's attack didn't diminish. But Bastia repeatedly repelled their advances outside the penalty area.
Kanté's coverage, Van Dijk's composed defending, Martinez's shot-stopping—all combined to frustrate Inter.
Inter fans began questioning whether they could score at all.
Amid these doubts, their legendary captain stepped forward.
In the 76th minute, during a corner kick opportunity, as a teammate delivered the cross, Zanetti found space behind Palacio.
He headed it powerfully past Martinez into the net.
ROAR!
The entire stadium exploded into frenzy, Inter fans screaming themselves hoarse.
Zanetti didn't celebrate. He plunged into the net, grabbed the ball, and marched toward the center circle, constantly pumping his arms, urging his teammates to push forward.
The full-throated roar seemed to breathe new life into Inter's players.
On the touchline, Stramaccioni's spirits lifted. No matter what happened, at least a draw would be acceptable now, right? Otherwise, the second leg would be desperately difficult. Zanetti's goal considerably improved his mood.
Meanwhile Hadzibegic frowned, contemplating substitutions.
His team's fitness remained somewhat problematic.
Zanetti's goal had resulted from lax marking by Bastia.
TWEET!
Match resumed.
Hadzibegic continued deliberating.
Suddenly—
BOOM!
A long pass on the pitch yanked his attention completely.
From midfield, De Bruyne hit a long diagonal toward central striker Lukaku.
Lukaku controlled it with his back to goal, Juan Jesus pressing against him.
He immediately laid it off horizontally to the advancing Julien.
As Julien received, Inter's right-side defensive line was basically in position. But Julien detected the spaces between them with predatory instinct.
Bastia's fitness was declining, but Inter's wasn't much better. And their players were older!
As the tracking Cassano and Kovačić converged, Julien received the ball and backheeled it through the gap between them in one motion. Their defensive effort rendered meaningless.
Gasp!
Inter fans hadn't even emerged from their goal-scoring euphoria when they saw Julien driving forward with the ball. Foreboding dread instantly washed over them.
Fortunately, Chivu and Cambiasso immediately formed a wall in the half-space, blocking Julien's route.
THUMP!
They anticipated Julien would try forcing through. Instead he passed, and after releasing the ball, rather than continuing forward, he checked back.
It looked like he planned to drop deeper for support.
Chivu immediately abandoned Julien, charging toward De Bruyne—after all, De Bruyne in that position with a forward run would create dangerous space.
However, the instant Chivu departed, Julien spun and exploded with pace.
CRACK!
De Bruyne's through ball!
They'd executed a delayed wall pass, and Chivu and Cambiasso instantly recognized the danger. But when they tried intercepting Julien again, they were far too late!
Julien's speed was devastating!
They were stunned—how could he still have this much pace this late in the match?
After bursting past Chivu and his partner, Julien activated maximum intensity, ruthlessly draining his final reserves.
Nearly eighty minutes in, he wasn't considering energy conservation anymore. So, in this moment, he threw every card on the table—pure, relentless drive forward!
After beating four players, Zanetti positioned himself expertly, blocking Julien's cutting lane.
Julien hesitated for maybe a tenth of a second, then instinctively knocked the ball forward down the outside channel.
One-two past Zanetti!
Beating him on the outside!
In this moment, though Zanetti could use experience to anticipate Julien's route and position himself, he couldn't match the youngster's wind-like pace.
Julien overtook him on the outside.
Zanetti gave everything but couldn't catch up. After blowing past the veteran, Julien cut back inside.
Handanović had already rushed out, repeatedly closing down angles.
As a world-class goalkeeper, Handanović's positioning was exceptional. Julien's angle narrowed to almost nothing.
Julien gritted his teeth and deployed an old trick—take it to the byline!
He pushed the ball toward the goal line, chased it down, contorted his body, and hammered it with his left foot.
BANG!!
His entire sequence of actions had commanded universal attention.
Now the stadium reached absolute fever pitch! After all, Julien had just sliced through five Inter defenders—who wouldn't be stunned by that breakthrough ability?!
At this moment, as Julien struck, every heart stopped.
Every eye locked onto the football.
The ball traced an arc through the air.
Under everyone's shocked gaze, it smashed against the inside of the post and rebounded into the net.
Extreme acute angle! An impossible goal!
WHOOOOSH!
The instant it crossed the line, even Inter supporters experienced a moment of stunned exclamation. Setting aside support, they recognized the sheer beauty of that finish.
Had an Inter player scored that goal, they'd have elevated him to the heavens, told everyone it deserved Puskás Award consideration.
Because it was genuinely magnificent!
After striking, Julien's body weight was completely unbalanced. He stumbled forward several steps, bracing himself with one hand on the turf before stabilizing.
When he looked back, the ball already nestled in the net.
His teammates were already charging toward him in celebration.
The molten emotion in Julien's chest erupted violently, an indescribable feeling accumulating, building pressure.
Hat-trick!
HAT-TRICK!!
He'd scored a hat-trick at San Siro!!
Julien used his planted hand for leverage, spinning toward the touchline. This half had no Bastia fans—only a blue-black ocean.
But Julien didn't care.
He roared something wordless and meaningless, then leaped onto the advertising boards at pitch side.
He stood on top of them. He saw every expression in the Inter stands—shock, fury, disbelief, resignation, even appreciation. The full spectrum of human emotion.
In this moment, Julien felt strange calm fall on himself.
He exhaled slowly. This "genius" from a northern Paris suburb, from a small town, who'd walked such a long road—finally, in this instant, his talent had taken visible, undeniable form for all to witness.
Julien spread his arms wide.
His face was calm; he gazed at the masses in the Inter stands.
Behind him, teammates rushed forward, grabbing his legs, chanting his name.
Julien turned and jumped down. Lukaku caught him.
Then all his teammates swarmed, embracing Julien, holding tight.
Everyone bore sweat, grass stains, and dirt—disheveled but ecstatic.
Overjoyed.
"Julien..."
On the touchline, Hadzibegic literally jumped for joy. Inter had just pulled one back, and Julien immediately responded!
Magnificent! Absolutely magnificent!!
The old coach wanted to charge onto the pitch and celebrate with them, but he restrained himself. Couldn't break protocol.
He turned instead to embrace Dominique and the other staff, celebrating wildly.
Tonight's Meazza didn't belong to the blue-black, but to the pure blue of Bastia!
Behind Hadzibegic in the stands, Chataigner and owner Geronimi were nearly in tears.
As club executives bearing the crushing weight of financial pressure, witnessing Julien's goal released all that pent-up emotion completely.
The two embraced.
"Julien... he keeps saving Bastia, over and over..."
Geronimi's eyes moistened as he watched Julien hoisted by teammates. This used-car company owner who loved football so passionately felt bitter resentment at his own poverty in this moment.
If only he had more money, he could keep Julien, keep every squad member, sign new reinforcements. Then even a small club could become a powerhouse!
In Geronimi's eyes, Julien was the foundation for building greatness!
But alas... such a shame!
In this atmosphere, this football-loving man nearly wept. Genuinely wept.
He loved the transformation Julien brought Bastia.
He loved watching his club cut through Europe's elite!
The future might be beyond reach—so savor this moment!!
At that instant, the TF1 commentator lost all composure, his trademark "BUUUUUT!" was exploding from his throat.
Then he roared: "He toyed with the entire defensive line! One, two, three, four, FIVE defensive players surrounding him! A blue-black vise! Completely irrelevant! Wall pass with De Bruyne! Pure inspiration! He slipped through, he burst free... acute-angle finish!
Pure talent—no other explanation exists... HAT-TRICK! In a Europa League Round of 16 match against Inter Milan!!
Who would have believed this a year ago?! This genius boy—France's blessing! VIVE LA FRANCE!!"
Bastia's supporters had fallen into absolute hysteria.
In streets and alleyways, it resembled mass euphoria.
Every bar and pub—you couldn't hear yourself think. Everyone screaming, everyone celebrating.
Pure ecstatic release, incoherent shrieks, complete loss of language!
Inter! The Treble winners!
This was unprecedented in Bastia's century-long history. As they'd languished in obscurity, nearly forgotten in Europe's corners, Julien had broadcasted Bastia's name across the continent!
"JULIEN!"
"That's Bastia's king, that's France's imperial star! Julien! Hat-trick!"
"Unstoppable! Consistently unstoppable! Julien is always Julien—no matter the moment, no matter how many defenders, you can never relax your guard. Otherwise, he'll demonstrate with five-man slaloms exactly what talent means!"
"That's the Corsican dance—did you see it clearly?"
At that moment, in Deschamps' Paris home, the France manager's face flushed crimson as he applauded enthusiastically. "Magnificent! What a talent—what a blessing for French football!"
Zidane joined the applause.
Julien's goal had fully showcased his individual brilliance. Five players in a defensive formation, yet he and De Bruyne's wall pass had simply gutted Inter's backline, putting him one-on-one with Handanović before curling it home from an impossible angle with his left foot.
The key moment was Julien's checking run—it was pure genius, leaving Chivu completely stranded.
Zidane couldn't help but marvel. "Sometimes I feel that no matter how high I set my expectations for him, I still underestimate him. This isn't Ligue 1—this is Inter Milan! They've had troubles these past two seasons, but Italian defensive organization is still world-class. Yet Julien tore through it."
Hearing mention of Italian defense, Deschamps laughed heartily.
"Have you forgotten the Euros? How Julien destroyed Italy's defense? That was Juventus's back four, and he still went through them. I've never doubted Julien's dribbling ability. Even his critics mostly complain he's not team-oriented enough sometimes."
Zidane nodded. Indeed, Italy's national team had fallen to Julien—what was Inter compared to that?
Thinking this way, his confidence in Julien's future only strengthened. He felt even more certain his arrangements were correct.
After discussing Julien's goal with Deschamps for a few more minutes, Zidane revealed his current plans.
Deschamps had initially thought Zidane's proposal—using their connections to build momentum for Julien was somewhat premature. But witnessing Julien deliver a hat-trick under such pressure, he understood that genius couldn't be measured by ordinary standards.
Deschamps nodded. "Alright. Have you prepared the draft? I'll contact my people. Tomorrow—no! Tonight. I want to call them immediately. I want this published as soon as the match ends."
Zidane smiled. "I came to you with everything ready. Since you're willing, when I make my calls, I can attach my name as well. I'm certain that will make them even more eager to publish. We'll probably need to make some personal visits afterward though."
Deschamps shook his head dismissively. "Minor issue."
He immediately rose to fetch his phone and make calls.
Zidane also sent a text to a number: "The original draft—watch the current match, make slight modifications, then send it to my email before the match ends."
Shortly after, Deschamps returned, beaming. "Done. Send them the content via email. They'll review it for official publication, but it'll go out tonight."
Zidane smiled with narrowed eyes.
When both men turned back to the television, Julien had already been substituted off.
With only about ten minutes remaining, the 1-3 scoreline would likely hold until the final whistle.
On the pitch, Stramaccioni continued his substitutions, bringing on midfielder Benassi and defender Ranocchia, replacing Jonathan and Kovačić.
For Bastia, after removing Julien, they also withdrew Mané, leaving only Lukaku up front to hold the ball.
Palmieri and Clauss came on to reinforce the defense.
Bastia now deployed essentially a 5-4-1 formation, massing all defensive resources around the penalty area.
Against such deep defending, and with tense nerves, Inter's attack completely lost its cutting edge.
When the three minutes of stoppage time expired, the referee's whistle pierced the air.
Bastia's players heard it like divine music. Some collapsed on the turf gasping for air, others raised their arms in triumph.
They'd won! Won away again!
The media had called Tottenham strong—Bastia won at White Hart Lane.
Then the media called the Treble-winning Inter strong—now Bastia had conquered the Meazza!
Substitutes poured onto the pitch, embracing their exhausted teammates.
Julien was among them. He walked onto the field, hugging Van Dijk, Kanté, Rothen, Angoula and others who'd given everything.
When De Bruyne embraced him, he wore a smile. "I think I'm not afraid of Chelsea anymore."
Julien returned the smile. "Whoever we face, we'll beat them."
De Bruyne nodded firmly. "Yes."
Pre-match, Bastia's supporters could never have imagined their team would escape the Meazza with such a complete victory.
Everyone celebrated endlessly, unwilling to leave. Tonight, every bar in Bastia would operate through dawn!
This was Bastia's night.
Whether in Italy or France, major sports media rushed to cover this "upset" match.
Though truthfully, few outlets still called it an upset anymore.
While most media reported on the match itself, L'Équipe took a different angle.
They immediately published a front-page headline on their website. Anyone entering their site saw an enormous image—the back of Bastia's number 10, Julien standing on the advertising board at the Meazza with arms spread wide after scoring his third goal.
Below it, a massive headline:
"THE PRODIGAL'S RETURN STORY NEVER GROWS OLD: DE ROCCA'S EPIC REDEMPTION!"
Further down were photos of a young, fresh-faced Julien at Clairefontaine and Chelsea's academy, plus a mural on a building in Roissy-en-Brie showing Julien celebrating with outstretched arms.
Clicking these images led to the full article:
Milan, San Siro Stadium—When De Rocca pierced Inter Milan's goal for the third time, standing on the advertising board with arms spread wide like a conquering king surveying the silenced blue-black ocean below, the roar seemed to freeze.
This wasn't provocation. It was calm confirmation.
Confirmation that he—this 18-year-old from Roissy-en-Brie in Paris's northern suburbs had completed his hat-trick and personally steered Bastia's Corsican vessel into the Europa League quarterfinals' deep waters.
3-1!
Behind the cold scoreline lies a script so dramatic it would shame any screenwriter—a story of fall and resurrection, of epic proportions.
Tonight marked the newest, most glorious climax in this grand drama titled "The Prodigal's Return."
Let's rewind to the beginning—Roissy-en-Brie, that 50,000-person community in Paris's 93rd department, embraced by tributaries of the Marne.
This is a microcosm of France's immigrant society: North African faces, Eastern European accents, French working class, abandoned industrial ruins, and vibrant riverside graffiti all intertwined. Poverty, chaos, talent, and violence coexist—colonial history's scars colliding violently with football dreams' faint glimmers.
Football is the only constant for Roissy's children, but professional football's ladder stands like an insurmountable chasm for kids from here.
Julien was once Roissy's golden phoenix taking flight.
Brilliant at Clairefontaine at eleven, extraordinarily recruited into Chelsea's academy at fourteen, fast-tracked into the U16s. On Cobham's training grounds he danced like an ethereal sprite, his technique drawing gasps of "football artistry" from coaches. His talent blazed so bright it illuminated him toward Chelsea's first team threshold.
But destiny's gifts carry hidden price tags, paid in heavy installments.
Roissy-en-Brie granted him unmatched ball control and raw hunger, but also planted dangerous seeds: contempt for authority, a hair-trigger temper, twisted obsessions, and unpredictable emotional volatility.
This "super prodigy" with such immense expectations believed talent could crush everything. Wing and attacking midfield positions became his stubborn stage, the obsession to dribble past entire teams rooting itself like addiction.
His "lone wolf" label on the pitch made every pass an unrealistic hope.
Fractures spread through the dressing room.
He never appeared for the first team, but his wildness led to conflicts—arguments with club legend Ricardo Carvalho, even confronting captain John Terry! Had Ivorian "Beast" Didier Drogba not mercifully protected him, young Julien might have been destroyed by Chelsea's hardmen.
But protection has limits.
The detonator exploded—during one confrontation, an unhinged Julien threw a punch at a Russian player favored by owner Abramovich.
From that moment, London's doors slammed shut.
His attempt to return home to France was similarly star-crossed. He joined Nantes's academy, but a cruel adductor injury struck again, forcing a brief, bitter departure.
Finally, he drifted to Corsica in the Mediterranean, joining Bastia's youth setup.
By then, that name once blazing on European wonderkid lists had dimmed completely, leaving only a reputation for being unmanageable and injury-prone.
Then came his life's absolute nadir—prison.
His first day as a 17-year-old arrived in handcuffs' cold metallic click.
The night before, on his 17th birthday eve, a lost Julien and equally confused companions had pointed a cold blade at an ordinary perfume shop employee.
That incident, classified as "robbery," felt more like a grotesquely twisted youth ritual, a violent release of accumulated frustration with his circumstances.
They stole not priceless luxury goods but a paltry few dozen euros—barely enough to celebrate one birthday at a corner café.
The former Clairefontaine prodigy, Cobham's artistic creator, Bastia's last hope—on his own birthday eve, he became a prisoner.
Iron bars separated him from the world's clamor, cruelly marking a full stop on that first life chapter dominated by rage, confusion, and self-destruction.
Yet there, in the swamp's deepest point, in the isolation of iron bars severing him from the world—the legend reversed course.
No one knows what nuclear transformation occurred in Julien's soul during those prison months.
When he reappeared in Bastia's training ground sunshine, it wasn't merely physical return—it was personality reconstruction, spiritual awakening.
Former violence transformed into calm resilience. Yesterday's obsessive lone wolf began learning trust, understanding team value. Contempt for authority, whether coaches or tactical discipline forged into weighty responsibility.
His talent never vanished. Instead, it was refined in the team's crucible into a deadlier weapon.
Those beautiful dribbles once serving only personal heroism's "beat everyone" obsession now primarily served to tear open defenses and create killing opportunities.
Then magic descended upon Stade Armand Cesari!
He became the absolute core and soul of Bastia's transformation from Ligue 2 promotion candidates into Ligue 1 frontrunners now storming Europa League glory!
Last season he swept devastatingly through Ligue 2, leading a "ragtag army" composed of Ligue 2 and even Championnat National veterans to an unprecedented league and Coupe de France double!
No longer Roissy-en-Brie's troubled kid, he became Bastia's greatest player in history!
Corsica's rising god!
This season Bastia marched triumphantly—Ligue 1 leaders, Europa League conquerors.
Until tonight, in this San Siro temple that has humbled countless talents, he used a hat-trick to cut down Inter Milan!
Every sprint crushed past failures' mud. Every goal slapped yesterday's shadows across the face!
Tonight's Julien standing on the Meazza turf was no longer the isolated talent rejected by Chelsea's dressing room, no longer the injured soldier abandoned by Nantes, no longer the prisoner behind bars.
He is captain! Bastia's most reliable finisher! The phoenix risen from ashes! French football's most story-rich gift to this era!
Why do prodigal's return stories never age?
Because they carry humanity's deepest yearning—yearning for redemption, for rebirth, for the strength to still gaze at stars from the abyss.
Julien's story concentrates French street football's wild talent and struggle, using the most dramatic reversal to prove an ancient truth: True greatness isn't never falling—it's rising stronger after every fall!
His roots lie beneath Roissy-en-Brie's graffiti walls, in the murky reflections of Marne tributaries.
His redemption lives in Corsica's rocks and sea winds, in every drop of sweat under Bastia's training ground sun.
And his future? No one can predict this super-talent's trajectory.
But one thing is certain: Julien De Rocca, this once-lost genius, has finally found the road home—that glorious path toward becoming a great player, toward the summit of self-redemption.
And his story has only just turned to its brilliant, possibility-filled new chapter.
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