March 26th, Match Day
By six o'clock in the evening, massive crowds of French supporters had gathered around the Stade de France. They wore jerseys from every era of Les Bleus, each one bearing the name and number of a beloved player.
The most popular, by far, was the number 10.
The iconic number, reserved for the team's creative heartbeat, had always garnered special attention in French football. Previously, it had belonged to Karim Benzema of Real Madrid.
As the most accomplished of France's "Four Little Swans," Benzema had once carried the hopes of an entire nation.
But ultimately, he'd failed to deliver on that promise.
After Laurent Blanc purged all four from the squad, the number 10 naturally passed to the player with the brightest future: Julien De Rocca.
Only on Julien's back did French fans see the shadow of a genuine superstar.
Among the mass, Bastia supporters stood out. They wore their distinctive hybrid jerseys—French tricolor merged with Bastia's colors and their voices rose in repeated choruses of "Julien's Song":
"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 FRANCE!
For national team matches, Bastia's traveling group always adapted the lyrics. Many French fans, even those unfamiliar with the full version, could roar along with the climactic refrains: "FORZA FRANCE!"
Around the Stade de France, the atmosphere surged like a rising tide.
Supporters streamed in from every direction, the stadium was pulsing like a blue heart pumping in wave after wave of passionate blood.
Time slipped away.
When the team buses appeared on the streets, the roar became deafening.
Spain's traveling support, small but fierce, screamed for their champions.
Three major tournaments, three titles—calling it a Spanish dynasty was no exaggeration.
Inside the French bus, Julien and his teammates stared out at the spectacle. Their battle-readiness intensified.
At home, they wanted only one thing: victory.
In competitive fixtures at home against Spain, France had never lost. Two matches, two wins.
Julien and company intended to extend that record.
As the bus pulled into the stadium grounds and players disembarked, French fans pressed against police barriers, unable to get closer but shouting themselves hoarse:
"JULIEN!"
"FORZA, FRANCE!"
The players marched toward the dressing room.
Soon after, Spain's squad appeared. Both teams passed each other in the corridor, heading to their respective changing rooms.
There was brief eye contact. But, no words exchanged.
Few players from either squad actually played together at club level—largely because this French team lacked star power, with most players still plying their trade in Ligue 1.
Today's starting XI included four Ligue 1 players: right-back Jallet, midfielders Matuidi and Kanté, and right winger Julien.
The rest were scattered: Lloris, Koscielny, Giroud, and Evra in the Premier League; Pogba in Serie A; Varane in La Liga; Ribéry in the Bundesliga.
All five major leagues were represented.
Spain's starting XI, by contrast, featured ten La Liga players, all from Real Madrid or Barcelona. Only tonight's emergency starter, Nacho Monreal—filling in for the injured Jordi Alba played elsewhere, having joined Arsenal in the January window.
Inside the French dressing room, Deschamps clapped his hands. "Warm up thoroughly. Get everything loose. From the first minute, we treat this like a final."
Giroud adjusted his breathing, tugging at his socks. He glanced at Julien beside him. "Listening to Didier makes this feel like we're already in the World Cup final."
Julien smiled. "They won the Euros last year. To some extent, this is a final."
Giroud nodded thoughtfully.
Once fully kitted out, the squad headed together to the pitch for warm-ups.
As someone who knew how most things would unfold, Julien would never reveal that next summer, Spain wouldn't even escape their World Cup group.
But from the previous encounter, Julien had sensed it: this Spanish side was aging.
They no longer possessed that airtight, suffocating attacking pressure. They controlled possession for possession's sake.
Julien felt reasonably confident about tonight.
Spain had rotated four players from the Finland match. Xavi and Xabi Alonso returned from injury; Monreal and Pedro entered the starting lineup.
David Silva was suspended due to yellow card accumulation; Alba remained sidelined with injury; Iker Casillas and Carles Puyol hadn't been called up due to injuries.
An already aging squad, further weakened.
Alba's absence, in particular, hurt Spain's attacking fluidity significantly.
Julien strode into the Stade de France.
The early arrivals erupted into cheers.
"JULIEN!"
Fans in the sections flanking the tunnel leaned over barriers, stretching out their arms, screaming his name.
Julien instinctively raised a hand and waved.
The cheers intensified.
As both teams went through their warm-up routines, the TF1 commentary team had already begun their pre-match coverage. This match mattered too much to France—the broadcast had started early.
"Most predictions favor Spain after their stumble," the commentator noted, "especially with reports from AS about an internal dispute..."
The Spanish sports daily had found a fresh angle in their post-match analysis: video evidence of right-back Álvaro Arbeloa and center-back Gerard Piqué arguing after conceding Finland's equalizer.
In the 79th minute, Finnish striker Teemu Pukki had tapped home a cross from the left wing, slotting into an empty net.
Immediately after, Piqué and Arbeloa had gotten into a heated argument. Piqué pointed accusingly, insisting Arbeloa's positioning error had allowed the cross. Arbeloa protested, arguing he'd been covering two Finnish runners making forward runs and that Piqué, as right center-back, should have provided cover.
The argument escalated. While Piqué continued his tirade, Arbeloa spread his hands in exasperation, eyes wide with disbelief at the accusation.
As Piqué turned away, he wagged a finger—first indicating he knew what he'd seen, then telling Arbeloa to drop it because the match had to continue.
Replays showed the root cause actually lay with Spain's midfield. Sergio Busquets, acting as defensive shield, had been on the right side of midfield when Finland switched play to their left. He'd failed to recover quickly enough to provide cover.
Meanwhile, Andrés Iniesta, closest to the ball, hadn't pressed aggressively to prevent the attack.
Busquets' and Iniesta's passivity had directly enabled Finland's counter-attack.
But this was Spain's world-class midfield. Who would dare criticize them?
Moreover, Piqué, Busquets, and Iniesta were all Barcelona teammates.
Naturally, the blame fell on Real Madrid's Arbeloa.
However, in a pre-match interview before facing France, Piqué had clarified: "If this had been a Barcelona player arguing with a non-Madrid player, the media wouldn't have cared. Arbeloa and I were just having a technical discussion about the game—things got heated, but our relationship is fine.
Real Madrid and Barcelona had tensions for a while, but when we all join Spain, we're the same. We're all part of this family. Just because Madrid and Barça players argue doesn't mean there's a story. I'd already forgotten about it by the time the match ended."
"But!" The TF1 commentator's tone sharpened. "We must not underestimate Spain. They're the champions of the last three major tournaments. Champions like that possess incredible resilience. This will not be an easy match.
"Additionally, Deschamps is fielding a very young side. That's inherently a gamble.
I hope the team remains cautious. Don't let these pre-match 'advantages' become a smokescreen. We must play to our strengths.
Del Bosque knows France's advantage lies on the wings. Let's see how Deschamps deploys De Rocca and Ribéry..."
The commentary aimed to temper French fans' soaring expectations—to prevent hope from ballooning into crushing disappointment.
But the supporters weren't listening. If anything, their confidence had only grown.
Time, place, circumstances—everything favored France!
France was rested and at home, fielding full strength, while Spain had key absences.
Most importantly—
"So, what if they know our wings are dangerous? Tottenham knew. Inter knew. They all knew Julien could beat players and finish. Could they stop him? No!"
"And Ribéry's been immense for Bayern in the Champions League this season. With both wingers firing and Spain missing Alba, their wide defense is even more vulnerable."
Minutes ticked by.
After warm-ups concluded, the players returned to the dressing rooms for final preparations before emerging in the tunnel, ready for battle.
By now it was nearly nine o'clock. Kickoff was scheduled for nine sharp.
The broadcast cameras captured close-ups of players in the tunnel, then panned to the stands.
There sat Iker Casillas, unable to play due to injury.
Media had reported lengthily that despite not being selected for the squad, Casillas had coordinated with the coaching staff to pause his rehabilitation work and travel to France to support his teammates.
Spain faced a must-win scenario—draw or lose, and they'd potentially face the humiliation of a playoff. For the reigning World Cup champions, that would be unbearable.
To boost morale, Casillas had made the journey.
Though he couldn't take the field, Spain's most-capped player in history—his presence alone steadied nerves.
It was a typical gesture from a senior leader.
Similar situations were unfolding elsewhere.
In Group F, Portugal trailed Russia by four points despite having played one more match. They sat second in the group; their direct qualification hopes were fading.
Securing even a playoff spot wasn't guaranteed—Israel was breathing down their necks in the standings. According to the rules, Portugal needed to finish as one of the eight best second-place teams. Their remaining qualifiers allowed no margin for error.
Cristiano Ronaldo was suspended tonight due to yellow card accumulation in their match against Azerbaijan.
After the previous draw with Israel, Ronaldo had felt pain in his right calf. But rather than return to Madrid for treatment, he'd chosen to fly 5,000 kilometers to Baku to cheer from the stands.
If Portugal failed to earn three points, they'd miss even the playoff.
For Ronaldo, desperate to end Messi's Ballon d'Or reign, missing the World Cup would be catastrophic.
As for Messi, he was comfortably leading Argentina to first place in South American qualifying.
Though South American football's physicality made life difficult even for him.
Before Argentina's recent match against Venezuela, Hamburg midfielder Rincón had threatened Messi: "Messi is the best player in the world, but if he plays, we'll break his ankles!"
The match had backed up that aggression. Rincón, Cicero, Vizcarrondo—all had played with ferocious intensity. South American football was notorious for cynical fouls, and as Argentina's star, Messi received special "attention."
The worst incident came in the 38th minute. Messi was surging forward at speed when Rincón, fixed in his defensive position, simply stood firm and body-checked him—but with his right elbow extended, striking Messi's eye socket.
Messi collapsed. Close-ups showed his eyelid swollen and bloodied, though fortunately the eye itself wasn't damaged.
The flying tackles had been countless.
Sometimes you had to marvel: Messi and Christiano Ronaldo's body were genuinely indestructible. Think of Ronaldo Nazário and others who had immense talent, but injuries derailed their careers before they reached their full potential.
But enough about South America. Back to the Stade de France.
After showing Casillas, the cameras focused on two VIPs: Spanish Prime Minister Mariano Rajoy and French President François Hollande together.
Both men stood at the front of the VIP box, waving to the crowd as cameras lingered.
Applause rippled resounded the stands.
The moment the camera moved away—
The stadium exploded.
THE PLAYERS WERE EMERGING.
Julien, as captain, led France out. The instant he stepped onto the pitch, the Stade de France seemed to shake on its foundations.
Rajoy leaned toward Hollande. "That young man has a bright future. Congratulations on France finding a new 'Zidane.' Even in Spain, I've seen news about him. What he did to Atlético in the Europa League—beating them twice, that's remarkable."
Hollande absorbed the thunderous chants of "JULIEN" echoing around the arena, noticed the countless banners bearing Julien's face, and felt a swell of pride.
"Mariano, you're right," Hollande replied. "Julien is a jewel of French football. His story—from the hardship of Fontaine-le-Puits to becoming our national team leader embodies the French spirit: resilience, struggle, rebirth. We're all proud of him."
Rajoy nodded, soaking in the atmosphere and the adulation. "A fine young man. A young French captain. I wish him success, and I hope we all enjoy a great match tonight."
"Absolutely," Hollande agreed.
Though privately, his thoughts turned to whether Julien could be convinced to stay in Ligue 1.
As a politician, Hollande understood Julien's influence perfectly. Keeping him in France would massively elevate the league's profile.
And Paris Saint-Germain certainly had the resources to offer him France's most lucrative contract.
The only problem: Julien himself had ruled out that option.
He'd even raised Zidane's example as a shield.
BOOM!
BOOM! BOOM!
As the teams completed pre-match formalities, drums thundered from the French ultras section. Moments later, the entire stadium joined in singing La Marseillaise.
Soon enough, Julien stood opposite Sergio Ramos for the coin toss. Ramos couldn't resist a bit of psychological warfare. "I'm playing left center-back tonight. Watch yourself. I'll be physical."
Julien smiled faintly. "You're too slow to catch me."
Ramos' voice was filled with challenge. "We'll see about that."
"Looking forward to it," Julien replied smoothly.
Under the referee's supervision, they completed the toss.
Julien called correctly and chose to kick off.
Ramos had to settle for selecting which end to attack.
As both teams took their positions around the center circle, the TF1 commentator wrapped up his lineup analysis:
"Before the match, Del Bosque said: 'Anyone who doesn't consider France a top team is making a grave mistake. Deschamps has a group of outstanding players. In my view, France's speed is lethal. They have excellent vision, and their most dangerous weapons are their two wingers.'
It'll be fascinating to see how Del Bosque tries to contain France's wide threats.
Alright, the referee's whistle—match is underway, France with possession... OH LÀ LÀ!! JULIEN!! JULIEN!!"
The commentator's voice suddenly exploded in astonishment.
Viewers watching broadcasts around the world stared in disbelief at their screens.
And inside the stadium, the crowd erupted into pandemonium.
Giroud played the ball back from kickoff. Pogba received it. But before the match, Julien had given him specific instructions: if France kicked off, they had to strike immediately.
Spain was an aging machine that took time to get going. The opening minutes were France's best opportunity.
So Pogba, after receiving the ball, spun in a circle as if preparing to pass back—but he was actually waiting for Julien's run to develop. Then he struck a long, arcing pass toward the right flank.
Julien exploded toward the ball's landing zone at full sprint.
Spain's midfield—Alonso, Busquets, all of them reacted a second too late.
Monreal sprinted back in desperate recovery, but he had no chance of stopping Julien. He could only watch helplessly as Julien curved his run and surged past him on the outside.
In an instant, Spain's left side was torn wide open!
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