CRASH!
The French supporters erupted as Julien surged forward from kickoff, their collective roar was shaking the Stade de France.
This was vintage Julien—the move everyone recognized. Against out-of-position fullbacks or defenders lacking elite pace, he simply demolished them with raw speed. Fans had started calling the right wing "Julien's highway" as once he hit top gear, there was no catching him.
Monreal twisted his body desperately, but he could only watch Julien's number recede into the distance, the gap widening with every explosive stride.
Thank God Ramos had read the danger. Spain's captain was already sprinting across to cover, his positioning instincts screaming at him that this was going to be bad.
Inside!
Julien didn't even consider slowing down—he angled toward the center.
His strides ate up the turf in great gulps, each touch propelling the ball forward with distressing drive. The sheer force of his run, that hunched, destructive acceleration, made Ramos's heart skip. He'd seen this kind of pace before, but never quite like this—never with such violent intent.
Still, Ramos had pocketed world-class forwards for years. He backed himself to stop Julien.
As Julien bore down on him, showing no signs of easing off, Ramos tracked Giroud's supporting run—the striker was several yards behind, too far to be immediately dangerous. Julien wasn't waiting for help. He was going alone.
Full throttle!
Ramos read it perfectly, closing the distance and getting tight to Julien's shoulder, trying to use his upper body strength to disrupt the attacker's balance and force him wider.
But Julien had been waiting for exactly that contact.
The instant Ramos pressed in and slowed fractionally to engage physically; Julien exploded again—a second burst of acceleration from what seemed like an impossible position.
He was gone.
Ramos hadn't anticipated another gear shift. His hand instinctively grabbed for Julien's shirt, but in his rush, he couldn't get a proper grip. The cloth slipped through his fingers.
Julien was getting away from him. Pulling clear.
In that split second, Ramos remembered what he'd said to Julien before kickoff. His jaw clenched. If he didn't do something right now, Julien would be clean through on goal.
Ramos planted hard and launched himself into a slide tackle, coming in from the side like a heat-seeking missile aimed at Julien's path.
Julien saw it coming. He checked his run fractionally, dragged the ball behind his standing leg with the outside of his boot, preparing to let Ramos slide past before accelerating away again.
But—
Ramos's tackle came in faster than expected. Just as Julien completed the touch, Ramos's studs caught him flush on the ankle.
For an instant, Julien felt the joint buckle sickeningly under the impact, the ligaments straining at an angle they were never meant to bend.
"AGH!"
The pain shot through him like electricity. Julien hit the deck immediately, instinctively protecting himself, which probably saved him from absorbing the full force of Ramos's momentum.
Ramos, for his part, realized what he'd done the moment contact was made. He tried desperately to pull out of the challenge, but it was far too late.
PHWEEET!
Julien's collapse and the referee's whistle were almost simultaneous.
Referee Cüneyt Çakır sprinted toward the incident, his hand already moving toward his pocket. His experience told him that if he didn't make an immediate, decisive call, this situation would spiral out of control fast.
He was right.
Before his whistle had even finished echoing, Giroud was already at Ramos's position, shoving the Spanish captain—who'd just gotten to his feet back down to the turf with both hands.
"What the FUCK were you thinking?! Do you have ANY idea what you just did?!"
Giroud screamed in English, his face was contorted with fury, veins were standing out on his neck.
Piqué rushed over from the other side, immediately pushing Giroud away. "Hey! What the hell are YOU doing?"
Ramos scrambled up, squaring up to Giroud immediately, their foreheads nearly touching.
The two sides looked ready to throw punches.
PHWEET! PHWEET! PHWEET!
Çakır kept blowing his whistle, forcing himself between the angry players. He had zero tolerance for persistent fouling and dangerous play, and he'd already made his decision the moment his whistle first sounded.
When the Spanish players saw the referee reach into his back pocket, their hearts sank.
Piqué rushed forward, desperately making his case. "That can't be red! He wasn't the last man—I was right there covering!"
But Çakır was already shaking his head. Without hesitation, he raised the red card high above his head.
Players from both teams continued their verbal jousting, curses were flying in multiple languages. Most of them had limited history with each other across their club careers, so there was no need to hold back now.
What stopped the confrontation from escalating further was simple: the language barrier.
Most of Spain's squad had never played abroad—they spoke only Spanish. Most of France's players knew only French. Kanté, for example, looked utterly bewildered by the whole scene. Instead of getting involved in the shouting match, he followed the medical team to check on Julien.
While Ramos was being sent off, while players clashed, while Çakır waved his red card:
The French supporters unleashed a deafening roar that seemed to shake the stadium.
Fury!
The fans weren't celebrating the red card. They were consumed with worry for Julien, who'd been scythed down on his standing leg.
That kind of tackle could end careers.
BOOOOOOO!
The entire Stade de France became a cauldron of whistles and jeers, the sound was rolling down from the stands like an avalanche.
Nobody in the stadium had expected this. Just 28 seconds into the match—a red card.
In the presidential box, Spanish Prime Minister Mariano Rajoy's expression was somber, his brow furrowed deeply.
French President François Hollande, like every French fan in the ground, was fixated on Julien's lying figure, anxiety was evident on his face.
The TF1 commentator's voice trembled with shock and rage:
"Unbelievable! Absolutely UNBELIEVABLE! Julien! Twenty-eight seconds! He tore through Spain's defense like a lightning bolt!
Monreal was left for dead! And Ramos—the experienced center back when faced with that explosive pace and power, he chose the most desperate, the UGLIEST solution possible!"
The broadcast replayed Julien's surge and Ramos's tackle on a loop.
The commentator's tone shifted, mixing anguish with condemnation:
"Look at that speed! That devastating directness! Julien is a gift from God to France! Ramos couldn't live with him in the first challenge—he was already beaten.
And his second attempt? That wasn't defending. That was assault. A potentially career-altering piece of malicious play that has NO place on a football pitch!"
Whether in the stadium or watching at home, French fans were apoplectic with rage.
"Murderer! You're nothing but a thug!"
"Ramos's a DISGRACE! Spain's shame!"
"Go crawl back into your rat hole! Look at that tackle! Can't win fairly so you go in to injure him like a cornered dog!"
"You can't beat him face-to-face so you chop him down from behind? Pathetic! This is Spain's captain? He's a filthy maggot!"
Back in the Sunset Café in Bastia, the local fans were even more enraged.
"If Julien's career is damaged by this, I'm going to hunt that bastard down!"
"Him and that other Real Madrid center back Pepe—they're a disgrace to football. Half their challenges are designed to cripple opponents!"
The moment he saw Julien go down, Deschamps felt his heart clench. He immediately gestured frantically toward the fourth official, demanding a red card.
But when Çakır actually produced it, Deschamps felt oddly hollow. His chest was tight with anxiety, he could only watch as the medical team sprinted onto the pitch.
He urged them to hurry, then stood rooted to the spot, arms folded, jaw working.
'Please be okay. Please, please be okay.'
Deschamps kept repeating it in his mind like a mantra.
That tackle from Ramos had been genuinely horrifying. Even in slow-motion replay, you could see Julien's ankle bend at a sickening angle.
On the Pitch
Once the melee subsided, French players surrounded Julien in a protective circle.
The team doctor was carefully manipulating Julien's ankle, making gentle movements while asking questions about pain levels.
Julien shook his head each time. No sharp pain. No grinding sensation.
After several rounds of questioning produced the same answer, the doctor finally exhaled with relief, the tension draining from his shoulders.
A smile broke across his face. "Julien, thank God—you're not injured."
Julien nodded.
While the doctor had been examining him, Julien had already checked his injury panel. Nothing registered.
Which meant he genuinely wasn't hurt.
That initial impact had certainly hurt like hell, though.
The doctor sprayed some ethyl chloride on the affected area as a precaution, then turned toward the bench and gave an emphatic thumbs-up, signaling that Julien was fine.
Deschamps nearly collapsed with relief. He turned and embraced assistant coach Stéphane Paille—they'd both been terrified. But if Julien was okay, then this was actually a dream start for France.
Just 28 seconds in, and they'd forced the opposition down to ten men.
That was Julien's impact. His threat level.
Ramos had already walked off down the tunnel, red card in hand. Now Vicente del Bosque faced a nightmare scenario: how do you face France with ten men?
Spain's defensive options were already depleted, Carles Puyol and Jordi Alba both injured and now Ramos was gone too.
While France anxiously awaited news of Julien's condition, Del Bosque had already made his decision. He pushed Sergio Busquets and Xabi Alonso deeper, creating a double pivot to provide defensive cover.
Del Bosque watched as Julien's teammates helped him to his feet, and his expression was complex—respect mixed with frustration.
This young man was changing France before everyone's eyes.
Julien adjusted his shin guards and tested his ankle gingerly. Genuinely no serious issues.
He suspected this had something to do with his recent attribute improvements across multiple categories. His body wasn't as fragile as it used to be.
At that moment—
The TF1 commentator, like the fans, breathed a collective sigh of relief seeing Julien was mobile.
He continued:
"Sergio Ramos! A legendary defender—but he exits this crucial battle in the most inglorious fashion imaginable! Spain are down to ten men before the game has even started, and Del Bosque's tactical gameplan has been torn to shreds just 28 seconds after kickoff!
This is Julien De Rocca. You can only stop him by fouling him—and most of the time you won't even get that chance.
Now, thanks to Julien's explosive run—France have a dream start!
A red card AND a dangerous free kick! Julien, this son of the storm, with one thunderous charge, has personally carved open the first crack in Spain's armor! The balance of this match has tilted in those first 28 seconds of lightning and fury!
Spain's path to defending their crown just became treacherous."
Five minutes had elapsed by the time order was restored.
Ribéry picked up the ball and brought it to Julien, covering his mouth. "You taking this?"
After Julien's spectacular free kick in the Europa League match against Bastia, Deschamps had given him a high priority in the set-piece hierarchy.
Julien covered his mouth in return. "Yeah, I fancy this one. Make a run to draw their attention."
"Got it."
They walked to the free kick spot together. The position was a bit far out, but perfect for whipping in a dangerous ball with curve.
If Julien had managed to burst past that challenge, he'd have been one-on-one with Víctor Valdés.
Julien wasn't sure what was more valuable—scoring a goal or getting Ramos sent off. Ideally, you'd want both.
He and Ribéry stood on either side of the ball.
Julien measured the distance with his eyes, ignoring the goalkeeper. He glanced briefly at the wall, then focused entirely on the ball.
Ribéry, meanwhile, was gesturing vigorously to teammates near the penalty area, indicating where they should position themselves for the delivery.
He looked for all the world like he was going to take it himself.
Spain's players couldn't quite read France's intentions.
The distance was awkward—somewhere between a direct shot and a delivery into the box.
As for Julien's dead-ball ability, they knew he'd scored directly from a free kick before, but the sample size was tiny. Even Del Bosque's pre-match analysis couldn't establish a clear picture of Julien's true capabilities from set pieces.
Based on his clinical finishing in open play, though, it was safe to assume he could strike a ball.
After the chaos of the opening minutes, all eyes refocused on the pitch.
France's first attacking set piece of the match.
Near the penalty area, players from both sides jostled for position, muscles coiled.
PHWEET!
The referee's whistle.
Ribéry raised his arm toward his teammates, then accelerated toward the ball. At the moment he shaped to strike, everyone in the box moved.
But Ribéry ran straight over the ball.
Julien followed immediately.
BOOM!
He didn't look at the goal—he relied purely on the overwhelming sense of certainty in his mind, putting everything into a whipped left-footed strike that sent the ball curling over the wall.
Valdés had anticipated the direct attempt. He was already moving toward his near post, diving full-stretch.
The ball whistled past his outstretched fingertips and crashed into the side netting.
SWISH!
Not quite the absolute top corner, but still impossible for Valdés to reach.
The net rippled.
1-0.
France had converted their first set piece. Julien had scored.
ROOOOOAAAARRR!
The Stade de France exploded!
This goal, coming right after Ramos's red card dismissal, felt like justice to the French supporters. Catharsis and vindication rolled into one.
But most importantly—it was Julien who'd scored it.
The moment the ball hit the net, Julien spun and sprinted toward the touchline.
Using his momentum, he dropped into a knee slide that took him off the pitch entirely. As he rose smoothly to his feet, he pounded the badge on his chest, then walked to the barrier and spread his arms wide.
Embracing the tsunami of noise crashing down from the stands.
"JULIEN!"
"JULIEENNNNNN!!"
The chant rolled around the stadium in waves, each iteration WAS louder than the last, like Mediterranean swells building into a storm.
In this moment, Julien was the undisputed king of the Stade de France.
The only superstar in the hearts of every French fan.
The volume was earsplitting.
Among the celebrations, many fans hadn't forgotten about Ramos:
"Red card plus a goal! Ramos's gift package!"
"Did you see that, Ramos?! That's the price of your dirty tackle!"
But more than anything, they were in awe of Julien—this eighteen-year-old captain of France.
"This is JULIEN DE ROCCA!"
"Tonight belongs to France! Keep going! We want to see blood! We want the world champions, the European champions, brought to their knees! The world needs to hear France's voice! We're BACK—and we're STRONGER than ever!"
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