The evening air settled over Clairefontaine as the French squad returned from their day's work.
Smiles lingered on the players' faces. They'd been bracing themselves for a backs-against-the-wall fight, only to watch Spain thrust the knife into their own side first.
But just as the mood in camp turned buoJulient, Deschamps called an impromptu team meeting.
"I'll keep this brief—I know you're all knackered," He began, shaking his head with a tone that mixed disbelief and irony. "You've all heard by now, yeah? Spain dropped points at home to Finland—bottom of the bloody group. I know what you're thinking: Christmas came early for us."
He leaned forward, his voice sharpening. "Wrong. Dead wrong."
"What does Spain's slip-up tell us? Football has no script! Think you've got a match locked down? BAM! An upset smacks you in the face. Spain—Spain—strong enough to win three straight tournaments, and they still bottled it. You see what I'm saying? Anything can happen out there on that pitch!"
Deschamps straightened up, his tone returning to relaxed but his eyes were boring into his players.
"So with Spain's example fresh in our minds, we cannot afford to get complacent. The match on Tuesday—every pundit in France will fancy us.
But mark my words: Spain will come to Paris like a wounded lion, pride stung, teeth bared. If we underestimate them, if we take our foot off the gas even for a moment, we'll hand them first place in the group and a direct ticket to Brazil on a silver platter."
His gaze swept across Julien, Ribéry, and the other key players, his voice was softening but his eyes were still gleaming with intensity.
"Truth is, Spain stumbling like this? Best thing that could've happened to us. It's a wake-up call. No matter how weak the opponent looks on paper, you treat them like they're world-beaters. Want first place? Brilliant—go earn it! Hoping the other lot will cock things up for us?
Forget it. That's not how champions think."
Heads nodded around the room.
Deschamps had struck the right chord. Before knowing the result, they'd been tense. After Spain's draw, euphoria had crept in—dangerous euphoria, the kind that believed about Spain gifting them qualification.
But Deschamps had reframed it completely. Spain's stumble wasn't a gift; it was a warning. If France slipped in this direct confrontation, no amount of hoping would save them.
Satisfied with the expressions staring back at him, Deschamps waved them off.
"Right, that's enough. Get some rest, recharge those batteries. Tomorrow on the training ground, we're watching Spain's match like it's cinema. We'll dissect every frame, study every pattern. Tuesday night at the Stade de France, we'll give those Spaniards a proper education. Now bugger off, all of you."
Julien and his teammates exchanged brief goodnights before heading to their rooms.
Back in his quarters, Julien didn't immediately collapse into bed. Instead, he scrolled through Spanish news coverage. Next week's showdown was a mountain-top battle, and Spain had only one option left: win away from home.
The draw had clearly rattled Vicente del Bosque. In his post-match interview, the Spain boss looked genuinely bewildered.
"The scoreline seems impossible, but there it is," Del Bosque said, his hands gesturing helplessly. "We dominated the first half completely. In the second, we couldn't break down Finland's defense. We should have been more clinical in the final third."
When asked about qualification, Del Bosque's jaw tightened. "We have four days until the battle with France. In my view, that's sufficient. Spain can still rely on our own quality to beat France away from home."
As Julien absorbed the Spanish media's post-mortem, his phone rang.
Zinedine Zidane. From Spain, no less.
"Allô?" Julien answered.
"Julien! Félicitations on your first match as national team captain—and a victory, no less," Zidane's warm voice came through. Then, after a second: "I heard you've started a website?"
"Hmm?" Julien's eyebrows rose. 'How did Zidane know about that?'
Zidane chuckled. "Last time I was in Paris visiting your father, I happened to run into him working with René on something. I asked about it, got the full story. So, I wanted to call and see if there's any way I could help."
Julien smiled, deciding to shoot his shot. "Well, Zinédine... would you consider writing about what happened that day in the 2006 final? Your thoughts, your emotions, the whole journey?"
There was a pause.
Zidane clearly hadn't expected such directness. Then he laughed. "Non, absolutely not. But I could write about other aspects of the French team, other memories.
Your platform—I really like the concept. Too often, players get twisted by the media, misunderstood, and they have no real channel to speak for themselves. Social media exists, yes, but I think your site is better suited for long-form content, for telling real stories."
"Mmm," Julien murmured his agreement.
"It's getting late," Zidane continued, "but we should discuss this properly soon. I genuinely love this idea—it's a stroke of genius, really. You've impressed me, Julien.
Have you thought about promotion strategy? If you need connections, I can introduce you to some people. They'd be interested, I'm certain. Of course, you might need to budget for some... shall we say, 'advertising expenses.'"
Julien hadn't expected Zidane to volunteer his help so readily. "Of course, no problem at all!"
After a few more pleasantries, they rang off.
But Zidane's call had set Julien's mind working. The website needed momentum, needed buzz if it was going to make a splash.
And what was the biggest buzz he could create?
His transfer, naturally.
Lying in bed, Julien's thoughts circled the possibilities until sleep finally came to him.
The next morning, after breakfast, the entire squad gathered.
No training—not yet. Instead, Deschamps had organized a full viewing session of Spain's match against Finland.
He wanted his players to find lessons, to glean insights from La Roja's struggles.
The match played on the big screen. Occasionally, Deschamps would pause and inject commentary.
Julien watched intently.
The reality was plain: in terms of both quality and performance, Spain had thoroughly outclassed Finland.
Yet the final score read 1-1.
Spain had controlled eighty percent of possession. But as Deschamps noted, "They love sterile possession. The Barcelona system has been studied to death by now. Everyone knows how to set up against them, how to suffocate their passing lanes. It makes those killer through-balls nearly impossible to execute."
The shot count told the story: Spain had unleashed 29 attempts to Finland's 5. With that kind of dominance, scoring only once exposed a glaring problem in Spain's attack.
Of those 29 shots, only four had troubled the goalkeeper. Spain's conversion rate was abysmal.
And the blame fell on Finland's tactical discipline.
"Three major tournaments, three titles," Deschamps said. "Spain have been placed under a microscope by every team on the planet."
He gestured at the screen. "Look at Finland's defensive structure. We need to study this carefully—it'll inform our own setup."
For the full 90 minutes, Finland had maintained a rigid defensive block with ten men camped inside their own 30-meter zone.
Spain had battered themselves against that bus and gotten nowhere.
Their lone goal came from a corner kick. In open play, they'd failed to prise open a single crack in Finland's defensive wall.
Breaking down massed defenses is football's eternal riddle.
Even Barcelona—the template for Spain's style, typically needed Messi to unlock those situations. But Spain didn't have Messi.
Messi frequently went missing in big moments for Argentina till now, yet Barcelona still drew constant criticism for lacking a Plan B, for their basic reliance on the same patterns.
Spain's forward line lacked a truly world-class striker, a problem that had plagued Del Bosque for months.
David Villa had started his first match for Spain in eighteen months, but without space to exploit, Villa couldn't function as a battering ram. And even in this weakened form, Villa remained Spain's best option up front—which said everything about their striker crisis.
Villa's rising age was an unavoidable liability, yet Del Bosque still hadn't identified a successor.
"I imagine Del Bosque must be jealous of me," Deschamps said dryly, glancing toward Julien.
The implication was obvious. If Spain's glittering midfield had a finisher like Julien, their dynasty might have continued indefinitely.
France's weakness lay in midfield. They relied on their attackers—Julien and Ribéry to forcibly tear open defensive lines. It worked, certainly, but it limited their tactical options and placed enormous physical demands on the forwards.
Julien simply smiled in response.
Beyond personnel and tactics, Spain's other major problem was psychological.
Throughout the first half, Spain had pinned Finland inside their box and pummeled them relentlessly. The tempo had been frenetic, waves of attacks crashing forward.
But after Sergio Ramos scored, Spain had eased off the accelerator.
Rather than pushing for a second goal to kill the match, Spain had tried to manage the 1-0 lead to full-time.
One of the reasons Pep Guardiola had left Barcelona was his inability to keep the Dream Team players hungry for every single match, to maintain that relentless drive for victory.
Now, after three consecutive tournament triumphs, Spain found themselves stuck in the same complacency.
"So, against Spain," Deschamps concluded, "we exploit these weaknesses. But we also have to execute our own game plan perfectly. Efficient counter-attacks are essential."
As he spoke, his eyes drifted to Julien.
He'd been tempted to say it outright: Julien was exactly what Spain lacked. Julien was the answer to Spain's striker question.
And within France's system, Julien would be the tactical fulcrum.
A team with one explosive wide threat gains enormous tactical flexibility and naturally constrains opponents.
That's why world-class wingers are so precious, so rare. The requirements are simply too demanding.
A player who can single-handedly pin down an entire flank?
There are precious few who can manage it.
And those who can become legends.
Players like Julien.
If Julien were a defender or a midfielder, no matter how talented or impressive his performances, he wouldn't have ascended this rapidly.
Because football, at its core, is simple: whoever scores more, wins.
Forwards have an inherent advantage in that equation.
The Ballon d'Or voting patterns prove it—most winners are attackers.
Which makes Lev Yashin's 1963 conquest as a goalkeeper all the more remarkable, an achievement that highlights just how extraordinary he was.
While France dissected Spain, Spain dissected France.
Del Bosque's pre-match focus centered on France's wing play. Left and right: Ribéry and Julien. Both had exploded this season at their clubs—one pushing for the Champions League with Bayern, the other chasing the Europa League with Bastia.
Both were core players at their clubs.
Del Bosque felt the headache building.
Why couldn't Spain produce players like this?
Spain had never lacked world-class midfield maestros. What they chronically lacked were elite strikers. Neither Real Madrid nor Barcelona could claim a Spaniard among their greatest-ever goalscorers.
Real Madrid's legendary "Golden Arrow," Alfredo Di Stéfano, was Argentine. He'd represented three different national teams: six goals in six matches for Argentina, four unofficial friendlies for Colombia (not recognized by FIFA), and 23 goals in 31 matches for Spain—though he never played in a World Cup.
In recent years, Spain's best options had been Villa and Fernando Torres.
But both fell just short of true elite status.
And now, as age crept up on them, Del Bosque found himself staring at the striker position and seeing... no one.
So, the prospect of facing Julien and Ribéry filled him with both frustration and envy.
If even one of them wore Spanish colors, his job would be infinitely easier.
The last encounter gave limited guidance—Del Bosque could sense that France had evolved.
Deschamps had overhauled his squad significantly.
More critically, Julien and Ribéry were both in dazzling form.
Del Bosque needed to neutralize France's wide threats.
"It's going to be difficult," He muttered.
Spain's strength lay in their creative midfield. But that generation of midfield masters was undeniably past their peak.
Calling it a transitional period would be generous.
When this unit retired, God only knew how long it would take for the next wave of Spanish talent to emerge.
Neither France nor Spain revealed their internal deliberations to the outside world.
But the media had already whipped the "Battle at the Summit" into a frenzy.
Some outlets proclaimed it a "World Cup Final Preview." France's youthful revolution had captured imaginations, while reigning champions Spain still had formidable power. The question of who would punch their ticket directly to Brazil had everyone's attention.
The stylistic clash made the match even more compelling.
Le Parisien ran the headline: "Julien's Assault vs. Xavi's Control! The Summit Showdown: Spear Meets Shield!"
France's potency came from their forward line, especially the flanks. Spain's dominance stemmed from midfield control.
Fans understood this dynamic perfectly, which only heightened anticipation.
Though some French supporters added a nervous plea: "Please, no blind referees trying to steal the show!"
The memory of the controversial ending to the previous encounter still stung. French fans felt robbed of three points.
Amid all the noise and speculation, match day arrived.
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