Julien's sudden burst of acceleration was a nightmare for defenders to read.
They were always one step behind.
That's precisely why Stramaccioni hadn't deployed Cambiasso to mark Julien today, opting instead for the younger Kovačić. Because Cambiasso simply couldn't keep up with Julien's pace.
Inter's current squad, ravaged by injuries and hastily patched together, looked functional on paper—but the reality was different. The young were too raw, the old too weary. The iron grip of their treble-winning era had rusted away completely.
Julien's explosive first step caught Kovačić off guard. The Croatian midfielder had been ready, anticipating the moment of acceleration—but when it actually came, he realized all his preparation meant nothing.
Because Julien's speed and movement gave him absolutely no chance.
Thump!
At that same instant, De Bruyne, positioned deep in midfield, unleashed a sweeping diagonal pass. The ball arced beautifully through the Stade Armand Cesari's night sky, curving toward the right flank.
Julien had exploded into space the moment he saw De Bruyne receive possession.
This was their understanding—their telepathy.
One knew the pass would come. The other knew the space would be found.
The ball descended toward Julien's position. De Bruyne probably hadn't anticipated quite how fast Julien would be—the pass was slightly behind him, forcing Julien to adjust.
Head up, tracking the flight of the ball, Julien registered Cassano closing in from his peripheral vision. Instead of stopping to collect the pass, he maintained his momentum, slowing only fractionally as his heel met the ball—flicking it forward in one fluid motion.
The touch was perfect, pushing the ball into the space ahead where his sprint could devour the ground.
Julien exploded into full acceleration.
Whoooosh!
The entire Stade Armand Cesari erupted. The audacity—the sheer beauty of it!
"JULIEN!"
The Bastia fans roared his name.
Such technique existed in the toolbox of many professional players, but executing it in the hot intensity of a match? That was reserved for the elite few.
Watching the broadcast, some French fans gasped in disbelief. "He can't be French—he must be Brazilian! His style is just like that Neymar kid at Santos!"
French supporters rarely witnessed their countrymen produce such flair on the pitch. Hell, you could expand that observation beyond France to the whole of Europe.
European football, at its core, prioritized efficiency over expression. Coaches didn't tolerate unnecessary showboating. Any young player foolish enough to attempt intricate dribbling had better pray they could beat half the opposition—like Julien had done in the academy.
Only proven geniuses earned that exemption. Everyone else was molded into reliable cogs—defend your zone, make the simple pass, create space through intelligent movement.
The TF1 commentator watched Julien ghost past Cassano and drive toward Inter's defensive line, his voice rising with excitement:
"This! THIS is the Julien we've fallen in love with! He doesn't care how many bodies you pack behind the ball, doesn't care how compact your defensive shape—he's the salvation for every fan exhausted by sideways passing and hopeful long balls to target men! He possesses technique so refined, so sublime..."
On the touchline, both Stramaccioni and Hadzibegic felt their hearts tighten, all eyes locked on Julien.
At that moment, Julien charged directly at the defensive partnership of Zanetti and Chivu—arguably Inter's most decorated defensive pairing.
But experience and reputation meant nothing against raw youth.
Julien's method for beating Zanetti was brutally simple, devastatingly effective—pure pace.
He didn't give the Argentine legend any chance to engage physically, didn't cut inside where Zanetti's positioning could help. Instead, Julien knocked the ball down the touchline and accelerated, using his superior speed to blow past the veteran on the outside.
At full sprint, Julien's foot actually crossed onto the grass beyond the white line.
The Bastia supporters lining that section of the pitch watched him fly past, faces flushed red with euphoria. Their supercar! Their phenomenal winger!
This was happening right before their eyes. The crowd's roar intensified: "JULIEN! JULIEN!!"
Zanetti, in that crushing moment, felt the full weight of age against explosive youth. Serie A rarely demanded this kind of sprinting intensity anymore.
He squeezed every ounce of speed from his 39-year-old legs.
But it wasn't enough. Visibly, agonizingly, Julien pulled ahead—completing the destruction with pure athleticism.
Julien controlled the ball in front of the struggling Zanetti, continuing his dribble toward the byline as Chivu rushed across to cover.
Meanwhile, Lukaku thundered through the center, dreadlocks whipping in the wind.
Juan Jesus did his best to impede the Belgian's run, but stopping Lukaku at full speed was like trying to halt a charging bull with your bare hands.
Julien tracked the developing situation in the box.
He glanced back briefly without breaking stride, continuing his drive down the right side. As he approached the edge of the penalty area, he began to cut inside.
Chivu immediately moved to block the cutting lane, with Cambiasso also recovering into position.
But Julien didn't take the obvious path. Instead of cutting inside immediately upon reaching the box, he continued accelerating toward the byline. As Chivu committed to following, Julien's left foot suddenly knocked the ball sideways—
Nutmeg.
The ball eased perfectly between Chivu's legs.
Julien planted hard, his body twisting sharply to pursue the ball's new trajectory. Chivu's momentum carried him two more steps before he could react and turn.
Too late.
Lukaku had arrived in the center, Juan Jesus using every ounce of strength to battle for position. Julien collected the ball inside the penalty area and delivered a low cross toward the penalty spot.
The ball zipped past Cambiasso's desperate lunge, finding Lukaku.
The Belgian striker used his considerable physical advantage to hold off Juan Jesus, meeting the cross with a powerful first-time shot—
CRACK!
The ball rocketed toward goal from close range.
Handanović produced a save that belonged in the history books.
The Slovenian goalkeeper reacted with almost superhuman reflexes, exploding off his line in a diving stretch that allowed his glove to make contact with the ball, deflecting it away from the net.
The power of Lukaku's strike caused the deflection to ricochet off Handanović's thigh, sending the ball looping high into the air above the six-yard box.
Every player in the area immediately looked to clear or attack the loose ball.
But Julien was faster than all of them.
He had already launched himself into the air. As the ball hung tantalizingly out of reach, he made a split-second decision—rotating his body from facing goal to showing his back, using that rotational momentum to throw himself completely horizontal.
Bicycle kick.
His enhanced flexibility and shooting attributes converged in that singular moment, giving him absolute control over his body and the trajectory of his strike.
BOOM!
Julien's foot connected, sending the ball screaming toward the top corner.
Even as he executed the overhead kick, Zanetti who had never stopped chasing the play—saw what was happening and threw himself desperately at the ball, trying to head it away despite Julien's acrobatic attempt already in progress.
Despite his veteran instincts producing the fastest possible reaction, Zanetti was simply too old.
One step too slow.
By the time Julien was falling back to earth, Zanetti finally arrived, and the two players collided.
Julien lost his balance in mid-air.
Zanetti quickly wrapped his arms around Julien, cushioning his fall rather than letting him crash unprotected to the turf.
Meanwhile, Julien's strike faced no further obstacles. Handanović, still grounded from his first save, could only watch helplessly as the ball nestled into the back of the net.
1-0!
Bastia, after surviving twenty-plus minutes of sustained pressure, struck again on the counterattack—and once more, it was Julien who delivered the decisive blow!
ROOOAAARRR!
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
The Stade Armand Cesari exploded into deafening pandemonium. This was raw joy, pure ecstasy concentrated into sound.
1-0!
They'd taken the lead against Inter again—another massive step toward the quarterfinals.
The stands transformed into a churning blue ocean, waves of Corsican passion flooding every corner of the stadium.
"JULIEN! JULIEN!
Lightning from Corsica!
JULIEN! JULIEN!
Thunder in their net!
From Clairefontaine to our shore,
Every time you run, you score!
Blue and white upon your chest,
Julien, you're simply the best!
JULIEN! JULIEN!
Strike like a hurricane!
JULIEN! JULIEN!
FORZA BASTIA again!"
The chant rolled through the stadium like thunder.
This moment belonged to Bastia!
Julien landed, got to his feet, and gave Zanetti's arm an appreciative pat before sprinting toward the touchline. This was his goal, his moment to celebrate.
He hammered his fist against the club crest on his chest, then held up eight fingers to the crowd—a promise to the fans.
We're going to the quarterfinals.
"JULIEN!"
"That was incredible! Absolutely incredible!"
The supporters reached toward him, arms outstretched, jumping and screaming. The emotions were overwhelming—witnessing such a spectacular goal live, right before their eyes.
Their blood ran hot, irrepressible.
Lukaku crashed into Julien from behind, wrapping him in a massive bear hug. "My God! Julien! That was a goal from the heavens themselves!"
The Belgian had been the closest witness to that moment of brilliance.
Right there in front of him.
Just magnificent.
For a fleeting instant, Lukaku imagined himself in Julien's position—if he could score goals that beautiful, that audacious, he'd celebrate even more extravagantly than this.
From the stadium to living rooms across France, this moment belonged entirely to Bastia.
The Inter players stood in visible confusion.
They didn't know how to respond to this situation. After bombarding Bastia for twenty-plus minutes without result, their opponents had needed just four counterattacks to capitalize on one.
And it was a goal they had to admit, however reluctantly, was absolutely stunning.
These kinds of goals lifted team morale like nothing else.
Zanetti clapped his hands together sharply. "Come on! Heads up! The match isn't over—anything's still possible! We keep attacking! Stay focused!"
On the touchline, Stramaccioni's eyes reflected something approaching despair. He understood exactly what this goal meant for Inter.
He stared at the figure bathed in spotlight.
That blue number ten.
Stramaccioni felt utterly helpless. Perhaps with a fully fit squad, Inter wouldn't be getting dismantled so thoroughly by Bastia.
But he had to face reality—Inter's aging defense simply couldn't contain Julien.
From the moment Julien received the ball, to burning past Zanetti with pure speed, to nutmegging Chivu—they couldn't even foul him. He was too quick to catch, too elusive to touch.
Stramaccioni suddenly recalled something he'd read while compiling Julien's scouting report, a quote from the media: "You cannot stop the wind, and you cannot stop Julien De Rocca."
In this moment, that phrase took physical form in Stramaccioni's mind.
Julien De Rocca was the wind.
A wind that extinguished Inter's Europa League dreams, swept away Stramaccioni's hopes of keeping his job, and scattered the last remnants of the treble winners' glory.
Not far from where Stramaccioni stood, the Bastia coaching staff celebrated wildly.
He lowered his head slightly, walking back toward his technical area.
Might as well sit down for a while longer.
Who knew when Moratti would finally remove him from that seat.
At that moment, French commentators and fans alike celebrated Julien's goal with abandon.
The commentator declared it "the goal that killed Inter."
The fans called it "the strike that put Julien on the path to stardom."
But Julien himself, after the celebration concluded, simply waved once more to the supporters in the stands.
This goal was just another entry in his professional career.
His greatness, his peak—they had not yet arrived.
Tweet!
The match resumed.
Inter now trailed by a single goal on the night, making the aggregate score 4-1. They needed three goals just to force extra time.
And that required keeping Bastia from scoring again.
It was an almost impossible task. But Inter had no choice.
Stramaccioni had no choice.
Attack at all costs.
In these desperate moments, Bastia's defensive line demonstrated genuine resilience. The backline that had been a liability in the first half of the season bolstered by the January additions of Van Dijk and Emiliano Martínez had seemed unreliable at first. But as they'd battled through one grueling match after another, something had changed.
Van Dijk and Martinez had grown.
Both possessed exceptional physical tools—what they'd lacked was big-match experience.
Bastia had given them exactly that.
Regular starting positions, trial by fire. They were learning fast.
England, London.
At opposite ends of the city—in Colney and at Stamford Bridge multiple pairs of eyes tracked this match intently.
In his office at Colney, Arsène Wenger had already accepted the board's decision: no additional investment would be forthcoming.
But watching Martinez command his penalty area provided a small measure of comfort.
A goalkeeper like that—even if we don't keep him, we could sell him for a handsome fee.
At Stamford Bridge, Emenalo watched Julien's individual brilliance, feeling anticipation stir in his chest.
Would Abramovich reconsider? Would he swallow his pride for a talent like this?
Emenalo wasn't certain.
If it were his choice, he'd tell Abramovich that genius deserved more tolerance, more patience.
But he wasn't Abramovich.
He couldn't make those decisions.
However, beyond Julien, both De Bruyne and Lukaku's performances brought genuine excitement.
Chelsea's lottery tickets—and Bastia somehow scratched them into jackpot winners.
He watched Bastia absorb wave after wave of Inter pressure, maintaining their defensive resilience.
Emenalo couldn't help wanting to bring that player called Kanté to Chelsea. And Van Dijk too.
We have to admit—Bastia's scouting department deserves serious credit.
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