The halftime whistle had blown, and now the interval was over.
Neither side made any substitutions—both teams returned with their starting lineups as players gathered around the center circle, waiting.
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The referee's whistle pierced the night air.
The second half was underway.
Inter took the kickoff, but Bastia immediately dropped deep into their defensive shape—a familiar sight by now. The urgency belonged to Inter, not to the Corsican underdogs holding a three-goal cushion.
Stramaccioni arrived at the technical area later than usual, his face was a mask of composure—or was it resignation?
Beside him, Hadzibegic wore hope like a badge, his eyes tracking every defensive clearance, every physical duel. Each successful challenge brought his face alive with eagerness, eyebrows dancing, fists clenching.
The TF1 commentator's voice had a tone of definiteness: "Inter have no chance left. None at all."
His Italian counterpart was marginally more generous: "Inter still have a mathematical possibility—vanishingly slim. Their only hope is to launch an all-out assault during Bastia's inevitable fatigue phase in the final twenty minutes."
But Inter's body language told a different story.
There was no urgency in their passing, no desperation in their movement. They circulated the ball in their own half with the unhurried rhythm of a team protecting a lead rather than chasing a miracle.
The Inter fans in the stands exchanged bewildered glances.
"Wait—did he just pass backward? Anyone watching would think we're up 4-1, not them!"
"I don't believe this. Are they giving up? Mate, what are you even doing out there? What the hell did Stramaccioni say at halftime? Because it looks like he said absolutely nothing."
"Ever since the Bologna defeat, I've known something's rotten. This isn't about injuries anymore—there's something broken inside this team. First half of the season we were brilliant, then suddenly... collapse. Complete collapse."
The Inter supporters couldn't understand what they were witnessing.
Neither could Bastia's fans.
But Bastia's players understood perfectly: This Inter side had already surrendered. Victory would be even easier than expected.
Inter sought stability. Bastia didn't need to press. As long as the Nerazzurri stayed outside the attacking third, there was no need to increase the defensive intensity.
Go ahead—try lobbing it into the goal from the halfway line if you're so confident.
Bastia had come prepared to park the bus, waste time, slow everything down. Now Inter were doing the job for them. What more could you ask for?
Just wait for the final whistle and the celebration.
Of course, the thought was comforting—but on the pitch, every Bastia player remained sharp, and defensively disciplined.
Who knew what dirty tricks Inter might still be hiding?
But as the minutes ticked away, it became increasingly clear: Inter had no tricks left. They were simply broken.
Even the Italian broadcast commentator sounded dumbfounded, struggling to understand what he was seeing:
"This is inexplicable! Look at how Inter are playing right now—Cassano is isolated up front, a lone figure in enemy territory, while Cambiasso and Kovačić are in the center circle conducting a completely meaningless exercise in safe possession.
Does this look like a team trailing 1-4 on aggregate, needing at least three goals to have any hope of progression?
No! This looks like a side running down the clock in a preseason friendly they're already winning! Has Stramaccioni orchestrated a complete and utter tactical surrender?!"
The broadcast director, sensing the audience's confusion, cut to a close-up of Stramaccioni on the touchline.
But his expression remained unreadable—calm, distant, revealing nothing.
Inter refused to commit forward. Bastia were content to throttle the tempo, conserve energy. Hadzibegic had prepared backups for an Inter blitz in the second half, counter-attacking plans and defensive adjustments.
None of them were needed.
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At the sixty-fifth minute, Stramaccioni made his first substitution. Álvarez, who'd started the match, was withdrawn. Fredy Guarín came on.
On the surface, it looked like a tactical adjustment—fresh legs in midfield, perhaps an attempt to inject some dynamism.
But then—
Less than five minutes after entering the pitch, Guarín committed a catastrophic error. Inter had finally managed to push into Bastia's half with some semblance of purpose when Guarín attempted a through ball to Palacio. The pass was telegraphed. Van Dijk read it instantly, sliding across to intercept with a perfectly timed tackle.
Angoula, positioned just beside Van Dijk, pounced on the loose ball and immediately played it back to goalkeeper Martinez.
Thump!
Martinez 's clearance found De Bruyne, who'd dropped deep to receive. Guarín, realizing his mistake, scrambled to close him down.
De Bruyne took the ball with his back to goal. As Guarín approached, the Belgian shifted his body one way, then spun back the other direction in one fluid motion—Guarín lunged at thin air.
Then De Bruyne knocked the ball forward into space and exploded into a full sprint.
The crowd roared.
"KEVIN! KEVIN!"
The Stade Armand-Cesari faithful were on their feet. De Bruyne's performances this season had been nothing short of sensational—this moment was just another example of his complete control in midfield.
De Bruyne surged forward with the ball at his feet, and Inter's defensive structure began to fracture. Lukaku and Julien charged forward in tandem, dragging defenders with them and creating wide gaps in the backline.
Inter were caught in no-man's-land—defenders scrambling back in panic, midfielders still stranded upfield.
De Bruyne had acres of space to operate. He drove forward, eating up ground with every step.
Cambiasso finally arrived to block his path but it was too late.
De Bruyne had already spotted Lukaku's run through the center.
Crack!
A precise ball, eased perfectly between Cambiasso's legs, bisecting both Juan Jesus and Ranocchia, landing right in Lukaku's path.
The big Belgian turned his body, took one touch to control, saw the open space ahead, and pushed the ball forward.
No fancy flicks. No unnecessary tricks. Just raw, devastating pace. The young striker had the heart of a winger—run, run, run until the opposition broke.
Ranocchia couldn't keep up with Lukaku's acceleration.
Juan Jesus, realizing he was about to be left in the dust, had no choice. He made one last desperate gamble.
He launched himself into a sliding tackle, hoping to win the ball.
But Lukaku, all two hundred pounds of him in full flight, was unstoppable. Juan Jesus didn't even touch the ball—his studs caught Lukaku's ankle instead, sending the Belgian crashing to the turf.
"AHHH!"
Lukaku's scream of pain echoed across the pitch. Juan Jesus's heart sank. I'm done for.
Sure enough—
TWEET!
The referee's whistle shrieked. His hand was already reaching into his back pocket.
Juan Jesus scrambled to his feet, hands clasped together in prayer, shaking his head desperately before the card even appeared.
But the referee had already made his decision. In one smooth motion, he waved the red card high above his head.
The Stade Armand-Cesari erupted.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
The crowd exploded in applause and cheers, their most dangerous attack of the half had not only been halted but had resulted in a sending-off.
The mathematics was beautiful.
This red card essentially confirmed Bastia's place in the Europa League quarterfinals.
Inter's supporters sat in stunned silence, drowning in despair.
Three goals down. A man down.
How were they supposed to come back from this?
Stramaccioni didn't even protest. He simply spread his hands toward the referee in a gesture of weary acceptance, then did nothing else. He looked like a man who'd already accepted his fate.
Julien jogged over to check on Lukaku. Being brought down at full speed carried serious injury risk—ankles, knees, hamstrings could all give way.
Fortunately, the young beast was built like a tank.
Julien pulled Lukaku to his feet, and Lukaku was grinning, despite everything. This match might be his first real highlight moment on the European stage.
Juan Jesus walked off the pitch with his head bowed, heading straight for the tunnel and the dressing room.
The Inter players watched his retreating figure, their eyes dull with resignation.
Stramaccioni made his second substitution.
Cassano came off. Andrea Ranocchia, a defender, came on.
Julien glanced at the young center-back: "Capitano Futuro," they called him. The future captain.
He knew Ranocchia well enough. Or rather, he knew the player's reputation from the future. Like Chiellini, Ranocchia had been hailed as the next great Italian defender, destined for greatness.
But fate had been cruel—he'd arrived at Inter during the club's darkest years, their most turbulent era. His weaknesses were magnified under the pressure, injuries derailed his development, and he was forced into early retirement, his potential remained unfulfilled.
Still, he'd stayed. Through all those dark years, Ranocchia had remained loyal to the Nerazzurri, enduring the storm alongside the club.
Julien exhaled quietly. The Inter of this era might truly be entering that abyss ahead of schedule, accelerated by tonight's humiliation.
But that was football, wasn't it?
Someone had to win. Why shouldn't it be him? Why shouldn't it be Bastia?
Bastia were awarded a free kick just outside the penalty area.
The distance was a bit far for a direct shot, so Julien gestured for De Bruyne and Rothen to take it. He positioned himself on the edge of the box, ready to pounce on any second balls.
After the chaos of the red card subsided, the referee blew his whistle again.
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Bastia could take the kick.
De Bruyne and Rothen both raised their hands, signaling to their teammates.
De Bruyne made his run-up—but he didn't strike the ball. Instead, he stepped over it, leaving it for Rothen.
Rothen swung his leg in an arcing motion, whipping the ball toward the crowded penalty area with wicked curl.
Both sets of players surged toward the ball.
Thwack!
Van Dijk rose highest, his tall body was giving him the aerial advantage. He met the ball with his forehead and sent it toward goal with a powerful flick.
But as the ball flew toward the net, Ranocchia, also jumping for the header had his arm extended for balance.
The ball struck his outstretched hand and rebounded away.
"HEY!! HANDBALL! HANDBALL!!"
The Bastia players immediately turned toward the referee, slapping their own arms, shouting, pointing.
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The referee had seen it clearly.
No question—it was a handball.
He pointed to the spot.
Penalty.
"WHAT?!"
The Inter players looked ready to collapse. A red card and a penalty? And they were still three goals behind?
Their mentality was shattered.
Stramaccioni, who'd been trying so hard to maintain his composure, finally snapped. He kicked a water bottle on the touchline in frustration, then slumped into his seat, face dark with anger and resignation.
Hadzibegic, by contrast, looked ecstatic. We've got this. It's over.
Heaven and hell were separated by ninety minutes of football.
ROARRRRR!
The Stade Armand-Cesari transformed into a cauldron of noise. The penalty felt like a signal to start the celebration early—fans screamed, waved flags, scarves twirled in the air, faces flushed with euphoria.
"JULIEN! JULIEN! JULIEN!"
They chanted his name.
Julien picked up the ball and walked toward the penalty spot, ready to face Handanović.
The penalty was inevitable.
Handanović became the last line of defense in the eyes of every Inter fan watching—the final barrier between disaster and total annihilation.
But when the whistle blew and Julien's strike thundered toward the top corner—
Inter's fans knew it was finished.
"It's over."
Whoosh!
The ball flew into the corner of the net. Handanović had guessed correctly, had stretched his body to its absolute limit, had gotten his fingertips close—but it wasn't enough. Not nearly enough.
Goal.
2-0.
Julien with a brace.
This was the goal that killed the tie.
5-1 on aggregate.
The TF1 commentator lost his composure completely:
"GOAL!! Into the top corner! Absolute perfection! Julien! Julien De Rocca!! The penalty was clinical, ruthless, unstoppable! 2-0! 5-1 on aggregate!
The tie is DEAD! The suspense is OVER!! Bastia—this blue army from the Corsican Island have buried Inter Milan in the volcanic cauldron of the Stade Armand-Cesari!!
I can practically start celebrating their achievement right now! For the first time in THIRTY-FOUR YEARS, Bastia are returning to the Europa League quarterfinals!"
Julien rolled away the instant the ball hit the net, sprinting toward the touchline with his arms spread wide, his face blazing with emotion.
And behind him—
The Stade Armand-Cesari fell into absolute, unrestrained chaos.
The fans' reaction was volcanic, primal, intoxicating.
They felt the rush of adrenaline coursing through every vein in their bodies, surging upward until it burst from the tops of their heads.
Madness.
Only madness could release what they were feeling.
"JULIEN! JULIEN! JULIEN!"
Tens of thousands of voices screamed the same name in unison, the sound was forming a tidal wave that crashed over the stadium again and again.
His name was no longer just a word—it was a totem of victory, an emblem of belief, a prayer made flesh.
In that moment, the Stade Armand-Cesari became a churning blue ocean.
Singing. Screaming. Tears. Embraces. Jumping.
All of it woven together into the most glorious, most ardent epic in Bastia's football history.
5-1.
When Bastia had drawn Inter in the Round of 16, no one had expected this scoreline. Hell, most people thought Bastia wouldn't even get past Tottenham.
Even after beating Spurs, even before this match, almost no one had predicted this.
Stramaccioni sat slumped in his seat, looking utterly defeated.
Hadzibegic and his coaching staff embraced each other, celebrating wildly. Behind them in the stands, club president Geronimi and now chairman Chataigner were so overcome with emotion that tears welled in their eyes.
Around the world, in homes and bars and cafés, countless people were experiencing countless emotions because of this scoreline, this moment.
But for those who knew Julien, who loved him, who'd followed his journey—his teammates, his friends, his supporters, this moment belonged to him.
For Inter Milan, however, it was over.
The players trailed back to the center circle, dull-eyed, waiting for the match to mercifully end.
Zanetti wanted to do something—say something, inspire someone but the veteran, his career winding down, found himself powerless. He was no longer the player who could man-mark an opponent's star out of the game, no longer the defensive anchor who could hold a backline together through sheer will.
Time waits for no one.
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After Bastia's lengthy celebration, the match resumed.
Twenty minutes remained.
For Inter's players, those twenty minutes felt like an eternity—a slow, agonizing march toward the inevitable.
For Bastia's players, their bodies felt lighter than air. They had fire in their veins, steel in their hearts. They wanted to win everything, conquer everyone.
In this moment, they believed no team in the world could stop them.
Hadzibegic finally made his substitutions in the 80th minute, withdrawing Julien and Lukaku. Mané and Palmieri came on—one to maintain the counter-attacking threat, the other to shore up the defense.
But Inter never mounted the resistance he'd expected. They never showed the resilience, the pride, the fight of a great club.
When the 90th minute arrived, the score remained 2-0.
5-1 on aggregate. Inter's only goal had come from their captain, Zanetti, in the first leg.
Four minutes of stoppage time.
Those four minutes felt like a balloon stretched to its absolute limit, ready to burst at any second. The entire stadium was holding its breath, waiting for that moment.
And then—
Finally—
TWEEEEEEEET!
The final whistle split the night air like a blade of pure euphoria.
Time froze.
Then shattered into a million pieces as volcanic joy erupted from every corner of the Stade Armand-Cesari.
Tens of thousands of Bastia supporters screamed, sobbed, embraced, their voices forming a churning blue ocean that engulfed the entire stadium.
Thirty-four years.
Thirty-four years.
Bastia—this team from a small Corsican island, a club that had endured decline, financial struggles, and near-oblivion had finally returned to the Europa League quarterfinals. The last time they'd reached this stage, they'd fallen heartbreakingly short in the final.
But this time, they came with a team of iron and fire, with unshakable belief, marching forward into history with every step.
Quarterfinals.
When Bastia had drawn this bracket, facing Tottenham, then Inter Milan—absolutely no one had believed they'd be the ones to advance.
But here they were.
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