Ramos had watched Julien's goal on the television in the tunnel area. He bit down on his knuckle, and fell silent.
His on-field persona was completely different from who he was off it.
But the sequence of events that had just unfolded in those chaotic opening minutes left him feeling sick to his stomach.
Everything he'd said to Julien before kickoff now felt like a series of slaps across his own face. He had no idea how he'd face the kid next time they met.
Say he could handle him again? And have Julien reply, "You got sent off in 28 seconds"?
Ramos didn't need to speculate—he knew this was already the fastest red card in World Cup qualifying history.
28 seconds. What can you even do in 28 seconds?
As Ramos sat in bitter silence, the TV broadcast continued with the TF1 commentator's excited voice—thankfully, he didn't understand French, or he might have smashed the screen.
"Twenty-eight seconds!! Just 28 seconds into the match!! Ramos's red card has broken the record for the fastest sending-off in both World Cup qualifying and tournament history!!
The previous record holder? Uruguay's José Batista in the 1986 World Cup in Mexico! He was sent off in the 54th second for a horrific tackle on Gordon Strachan!
That record stood untouched for 27 years and tonight, Ramos has shattered it in almost absurd fashion!!
Ramos's 'gift'—red card plus free kick—Julien accepted it all! One perfectly executed set piece, and the door to victory swings open! 1-0!!
The Corsican volcano has erupted at the Stade de France! This goal is molten lava! It's vengeance! It's a declaration—Spain's nightmare has been personally ignited by their own captain!!
Down to ten men! Down by a goal! Spain's quest to defend their crown has been plunged into the abyss in less than one minute of play, thanks to the combined efforts of Julien and Ramos!!
Remember this moment! 28-second red card plus a fifth-minute goal! Julien's name will be written into history alongside this epic, dramatic opening."
Back at the Stade de France
Spain's small group of traveling supporters could never have imagined this match, this crucial clash would begin this way.
PHWEET!
Çakır signaled for play to resume.
After Spain kicked off, both Busquets and Alonso dropped even deeper into defensive positions. But they still tried to maintain control through possession, refusing to play long balls or rush their passing. Even down to ten men, Spain insisted on using their tiki-taka to probe for openings in France's structure.
This was their instinct, built over years of dominance.
This system had delivered three major tournament titles.
Deschamps, after his initial elation, kept his tactical discipline. He constantly gestured for his players to drop deeper and maintain their defensive shape.
France's game was built on the counter-attack.
With Spain's midfield maestros aging and key defensive players missing, their possession game had become laborious and predictable.
Now, down a man, it was even worse.
For a while, the tempo slowed to a crawl. France didn't press aggressively, and Spain refused to take risks going forward.
Neutral viewers were practically falling asleep.
Too stagnant. Too sterile.
Plenty of fans were already complaining online:
"Spain's matches aren't as exciting as they used to be. Honestly, I don't think they'll do well at next year's World Cup."
That kind of comment was immediately jumped on:
"How is that possible? Look at the context of this match! At full strength, Spain are still the overwhelming favorites to defend their title. I'm betting big on them next summer. The last few years have proven they have no weaknesses when everyone's fit."
"The problem is it's boring as hell! Even Iniesta's dropping deep to play safe passes. Are Spain really going to try to hold on to 1-0 like they did against Finland? Except this time, they're the ones LOSING!"
On the Pitch
Julien observed Spain's possession game carefully, watching body language and movement patterns. He could sense it—after three consecutive major tournament wins, this team had lost its hunger.
Even trailing, they played with the same sluggish tempo.
Julien simply stopped running. He stood in the attacking third, practically strolling.
France were the ones winning.
If Spain weren't panicking, why should he?
Julien understood this aging Spanish dynasty well enough.
Right now, they could still cling to some dignity.
But the reality was that most observers thought Spain's decline began with their group-stage elimination at the 2014 World Cup. Julien knew better—it actually started this past summer at the Confederations Cup final in Brazil.
In that final, despite dominating possession, Spain couldn't prevent Brazil from scoring three times on the counter-attack, losing 3-0.
The image of Xavi's thousand-yard stare became iconic.
Spain's philosophy had always been to control the ball, minimize opponent opportunities, and reduce the burden on their back line.
But what if the opposition had clinical counter-attacks? What if they could score from minimal chances while defending resolutely against Spain's intricate passing?
Del Bosque hadn't found an answer then.
Just as he had no answer now.
This time, France might be the ones to pull back the curtain on the dynasty's collapse ahead of schedule.
Against Spain's ineffective possession recycling, France's defense was impenetrable.
Kanté was everywhere in midfield—shadowing Xavi one moment, tracking Iniesta the next. He was an absolute vacuum cleaner in the middle of the park.
That made life incredibly comfortable for Paul Pogba and Blaise Matuidi.
Especially Pogba. Deep down, he hated defensive grunt work, he just wanted to showcase his skills.
But at Juventus, he had no choice. He had to defend.
Now, though? He absolutely loved this honest looking kid beside him. Kanté did all the dirty work, leaving Pogba free to express himself.
It made him even more determined to cement his place in this national team. He'd even been thinking about approaching Kanté privately, maybe sounding him out about a move to Juventus.
Kanté was an absolute gem. Every midfielder's dream partner.
Who knew how Deschamps had unearthed a player like this?
As Xavi, Iniesta, and company continued their short passing carousel, Kanté was mostly running without the ball, anticipating their next move.
Gradually, Spain noticed something strange—the more they passed, the further they were from goal.
France were squeezing up the pitch.
After several minutes of deep defending, France began pressing higher in coordinated waves.
On Spain's side, Xavi sensed the shift immediately. An opportunity!
Xavi added a few quick steps to his movement, and as he faced France's defensive line, he suddenly threaded a sharp through ball toward the right side of the box, looking for Pedro's forward run.
But Patrice Evra had read the passing lane perfectly. He threw himself into the path of the ball and intercepted it.
This pressing trap was exactly what Deschamps had drilled in training—smoke and mirrors. The art of tactical deception.
You think we're pushing up? No—we're baiting you into attacking so we can hit you on the break.
And France's entire game plan hinged on rapid wide transitions.
As Evra slid to block the pass, he deliberately controlled where the ball would deflect: toward his own teammates.
The ball bounced perfectly into Laurent Koscielny's zone. He sealed off Sergio Busquets from the ball, stepped forward twice, and played a crisp pass into Pogba's feet.
The moment Pogba saw the ball coming, his entire body came alive.
This was his favorite moment, like a quarterback in the pocket, surveying the field and delivering the killer ball from deep.
Before the pass even arrived, Pogba had already scanned the scene. When the ball reached him, he was facing backward with Alonso pressing. Pogba dragged the ball behind him with his long leg, then spun the opposite direction in an unorthodox Cruyff turn that left Alonso grasping at air.
BOOM!
As he completed the turn, Pogba unleashed a massive switch of play: a raking long ball that arced beautifully across the pitch.
The pass found Julien once again. As Pogba watched the ball's flight, he thought to himself: That was fucking beautiful.
Ribéry had space on the left too, but Pogba felt Julien was the better option. He'd seen the news about Julien tearing Inter Milan apart when he was playing in Italy.
There was another reason Pogba wouldn't admit, he wanted to feed Julien the ball. Build some rapport with the captain.
But in this moment, nobody cared what Pogba was thinking.
Every eye in the stadium followed the ball's trajectory.
Julien!
Julien again!
He cushioned the ball with his first touch, it stuck to his foot like a magnet.
Busquets and Monreal converged, trying to trap Julien between them. But Julien's momentum never slowed. Against Monreal's challenge, Julien shifted his weight sharply to the left, creating the illusion that he'd use raw pace to burst through the closing gap between the two defenders.
Monreal bit on the feint, he'd seen Julien do exactly that countless times before, exploiting the split-second before defenders could fully close the space.
So, he adjusted, narrowing the gap with Busquets.
But—
With the outside of his boot, Julien delicately flicked the ball from inside to outside: a subtle elastico motion. As the ball shifted right, he chopped it back across his body with another quick touch of his outside foot.
Then he exploded again.
In a pure footrace, almost nobody could match Julien's pace.
By the time Julien accelerated away, Monreal's momentum had left him frozen for half a second as his weight was all wrong, and even his positioning was compromised.
That half-second was all Julien needed to gain a full yard of separation.
OOOHHH!
The crowd gasped collectively.
ELASTICO!
Every time Julien pulled off these technical skills, the supporters' blood pumped faster. Young players across France dreamed of being him: standing on the world stage, gliding past opponents, rounding goalkeepers, slotting home with ease.
But that was the old Julien.
Now?
As Julien burst toward the byline with Monreal beaten, Busquets cut off his route inside while Spanish defenders scrambled back in numbers.
But Julien could see teammates flooding into dangerous positions—central, left, everywhere!
He didn't try to dribble further.
WHACK!
Julien's right foot whipped a cutback, almost like an inverted through ball into the central channel. It was slightly retrograde because he'd gotten there so quickly that Giroud, engaged in a physical battle with Piqué, hadn't reached the optimal position yet.
So, Julien gave him time, pulling it back a touch.
Giroud met the ball while holding off Piqué's challenge. The Spanish center back had his body perfectly positioned to prevent a turn.
But—
As Julien's pass arrived, Giroud faked a run forward then dummied it completely, letting the ball roll through his legs!
That dummy wrong-footed everyone—Piqué, Alonso, even Valdés.
Ribéry, making a late run from the left, had almost overrun it. But he'd slowed down anticipating Giroud's shot, hoping to pounce on a rebound.
That deceleration meant the ball arrived at his feet perfectly.
Facing that kind of chance, Ribéry didn't flinch.
BANG!
He hammered it toward the near post. The ball screamed into the bottom corner.
SWISH!
Valdés hadn't even moved. He simply watched the ball roll into his net, looking helpless.
2-0.
France's wide men had combined again to double the lead.
Ribéry spread his arms like wings and glided toward the corner flag, then turned to embrace Giroud and Julien as they sprinted over to celebrate.
Ribéry's famously scarred face was lit up with pure joy. He grabbed Julien and shouted: "Brilliant run! Brilliant pass! That's our captain!"
Ribéry hugged Julien tightly. When Deschamps had made Julien captain, Ribéry had been completely on board.
For this French team, Julien was the perfect choice.
And this match was proving exactly why.
The stadium erupted once more.
2-0!
Against the seemingly invincible Spain. Against a team that hadn't lost in 24 competitive matches. France had delivered the most emphatic response possible.
Counter-attacks.
Wide, explosive counter-attacks.
This was France's ultimate weapon.
The TF1 commentator's voice rose with emotion again:
"Every dynasty eventually falls—without exception. And they all begin their decline in one specific battle. Will Spain's red dynasty crumble starting tonight?
Remember this moment!
When Julien's boots touched the Stade de France turf, he wasn't just beating Monreal—he was outrunning an entire ERA!
Xavi? Iniesta? Ramos? Busquets?
Those once-untouchable names are collapsing like sandcastles before the storm Julien has unleashed!
Spain's twilight isn't descending gradually, it's being kicked into darkness by Julien in the most brutal, brilliant, merciless fashion imaginable!
Julien De Rocca has torn down the curtain on this dynasty's final act!"
At The Touchlines
Del Bosque and Deschamps couldn't have looked more different.
Deschamps was flushed with excitement, practically bouncing on his toes. Defeating the reigning champions meant France had every right to compete for the ultimate prize.
Del Bosque stood motionless, lips pressed together, brow furrowed deeply. Nobody knew what the veteran coach was thinking.
Perhaps he was wondering why he hadn't retired after Euro 2012 when he was at his peak?
Perhaps he was debating whether to stick with the old guard or blood new players for the World Cup?
Or perhaps he was simply replaying Julien's dribble and pass in his mind—that youthful brilliance, that fearless virtuosity?
Nobody knew.
But tonight, at the Stade de France, it was French blue that reigned supreme.
Like an endless tide, surging and unstoppable.
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