"JULIEN!"
"JULIEN!!"
In Bastia, the roar erupted from the Sunset Café and every surrounding bar, voices pouring through doors and windows, converging into a deafening wave that pierced the night sky.
Julien's performance in this brief span had filled them with pride so profound it bordered on religious fervor. They wanted to shout it to the world: Julien was Bastia's beloved son, a world-class player who'd emerged from the Mediterranean shores, the new-era Papin, their legendary captain!
The commentator's voice was nearly drowned by the celebration,
"Spain has never defeated France in an official away match. In the 1984 European Championship final, France triumphed 2-0 on home soil to claim their first European crown. In the 1992 World Cup qualifiers, France dismantled Spain 3-1 at home, with Sauzée, Papin, and Blanc scoring alongside Spain's Bakero.
And tonight, it looks like that record will continue. This time, the goals for France have come from Julien and Ribéry."
In a corner of the café, Longoria's eyes burned with determination. Julien had become more than just Bastia's icon, he was the idol and aspiration of young French players across multiple regions.
Just like Zidane had been.
What Julien lacked now was only one thing: to lead France to that elusive championship.
Longoria believed it would happen. He clenched his jaw, renewing his vow to train relentlessly. His long-term goal was naturally to represent the French national team.
Medium-term: break into Bastia's first team.
Short-term: lead Bastia's U16 squad to victory in the inaugural "Bastia-Julien Cup"!
The Bastia-Julien Cup was the brainchild of sporting director Chataigner, who'd coordinated with professional clubs across Corsica. Funded by Bastia's municipal government and the club itself, it united the entire island.
Targeting age groups from U12 to U16, the tournament comprised three competitive tiers. Professional and amateur clubs alike could participate, provided players stayed within age limits. Essentially, it was designed for clubs with youth academies.
The tournament's name made its purpose crystal clear: "Find the Next Julien."
Currently it was limited to Corsican clubs, but Chataigner planned to eventually expand to mainland France. But that was a concern for another day.
For now, this competition captivated every young player in Bastia's academy. They refused to lose to other island clubs.
Longoria was no exception.
As he gazed at his blue-shirted idol on the television screen, envy flooded through him.
At the Stade de France, French fans erupted in a symphony of chants after going two goals up, their faces were radiant with euphoria. When cameras swept across the stands, supporters waved enthusiastically or struck playful poses. Some couples seized their moment of fame, kissing passionately for all to see.
Their body language told the story: complete relaxation, unrestrained joy.
The Spanish fans, by contrast, wore expressions of deep concern. For years, they'd been the ones celebrating at the final whistle.
But tonight? They didn't dare hope.
After the draw with Finland, Marca had warned: "Struggling through the qualifiers! This foreshadows a perilous World Cup campaign on thin ice!"
Now that prophecy seemed to be manifesting in the cruelest way possible.
Because if Spain lost this match, they might not even reach the playoffs.
Group I contained only five teams: Georgia, Belarus, and Finland served merely as fodder for Spain and France. Losing to France could mean group-stage elimination. By the rules, only the eight best second-place teams from nine groups would enter the playoffs.
Spain's current points total ranked poorly among other groups' runners-up.
And if they had to fight through playoffs just to reach the World Cup? For this red dynasty, it would be an unbearable humiliation.
Yet that was their reality.
On the pitch, Spain circulated the ball ceaselessly but couldn't find gaps or space to penetrate France's defensive structure.
In the stands, Prime Minister Rajoy maintained a good-natured expression, though dissatisfaction flickered in his eyes. Beside him, President Hollande felt calm, almost floating.
Could France actually lift the World Cup in Brazil? he wondered. At least based on this performance against Spain, we're genuinely strong!
GASP!
Just as his mind wandered, the crowd erupted in alarm.
Pedro's one-on-one was cleared by Varane!
Xavi, entangled by Kanté's relentless pressing, suddenly turned to create space and slipped the ball to Iniesta. The Barcelona maestro surged forward with the ball, and just as Jallet moved to cover, Iniesta threaded a perfectly slanted through ball behind Koscielny.
Pedro emerged like a ghost, latching onto it.
Clear through on goal!
But just as Lloris abandoned his line, Varane's pace allowed him to recover. At the exact moment Pedro shot, the young defender executed a desperate sliding tackle.
The ball rocketed away from danger, cleared outside the box.
WHOA!
Varane sprang to his feet, thumping his chest. Lloris rushed over, slapping palms with him and roaring: "Brilliant!"
Applause poured through the stadium.
Even Julien had been rattled by that sequence. Spain's creative midfield remained formidable.
Thank God for Varane.
Varane's meteoric rise had given France their defensive leader for the next decade.
And that was only Spain's first shot of the entire match. They'd been circling without ever pulling the trigger.
Down a man, they were paralyzed by caution, terrified of losing possession.
Julien understood the truth: don't assume Spain wasn't giving maximum effort. This hypnotic style was their maximum effort now.
Fans had even created a satirical chant: "Tiki-Taka Till We Die!"
"Pass it sideways, pass it back, Never forward, never attack!
Xavi, Iniesta, Busquets too, A thousand touches—nothing through!
Keep possession, that's the game, Win or lose, it's all the same!
Triangle passing, round and round, Till the opponents fall asleep to the sound!
Risk a through ball? Heaven forbid! Stay in second gear, keep it hid!
Set pieces are our only hope, otherwise we're just holding the rope!
Ball at our feet, we'll never let go, Hypnotize them with our show!
A hundred safe passes beat one attack— Tiki-taka front, tiki-taka back!"
The "triangle" naturally referred to Barcelona's golden trio: Xavi, Iniesta, and Busquets.
Their theoretical strategy: replace running with passing, kill time with possession, compensate for numbers with precision.
The reality?
Meaningless recycling, wasting time.
Neutral fans watching France-Spain felt momentary excitement at kickoff, then dreariness. One team passed without shooting. The other defended without pressing.
If not for occasional flashes of flair and the actual goals, it would've been torture to watch.
Spain kept circulating in safe zones—they had no choice. They couldn't afford another goal.
Yet France still created dangerous counters. Each one made Spanish hearts race.
Fortunately, despite their struggles, they hadn't conceded again.
At 39th minute.
When Spain's attack broke down, Matuidi launched a long ball toward Julien. This type of pass had occurred repeatedly throughout the night.
Julien burst into another sprint. He knocked the ball forward, then while in full stride, curved a "C-shaped" pass that sailed over both Monreal and the central defenders.
The trajectory connected both flanks!
ROAR!
The crowd gasped in admiration. The vision required for that switch of play, from the strong side to the weak side—was extraordinary.
Ribéry now had only Arbeloa ahead of him. The Frenchman showed no fear. In the first leg and last season's Champions League semifinal between Real Madrid and Bayern, Arbeloa had suffered miserably against Ribéry.
This time was no different.
Ribéry feinted inside, then burst outside in one fluid motion, gliding past Arbeloa. Suddenly he was one-on-one with Valdés.
Every French eye in the stadium locked onto Ribéry. Even Julien, making his forward run, tracked his teammate's movement.
But then—
At the Stade de France, under the watchful eyes of Casillas in the stands, Valdés produced a world-class save!
Ribéry's push toward the far post was anticipated by Valdés, positioned at the near post. The Barcelona keeper exploded off his line, extending at full stretch. His fingertips barely grazed the ball—but that feather touch was enough to alter its trajectory. The ball skimmed past the post.
Ribéry's one-on-one, denied!
OH!
French fans clutched their heads in disbelief. Such a golden opportunity was squandered.
Even the TF1 commentator was stunned: "My God! Ribéry may have missed the chance to bury Spain! Two goals down at halftime versus three goals down—those are totally different psychological states."
The Spanish broadcast, meanwhile, erupted with roars of: "SAINT VALDÉS!!!"
The Spanish commentator quickly provided context about Valdés, since this was only his third official appearance for the national team. His first away start, in fact.
Despite Finland's lone shot finding the net, Valdés hadn't lost Bosque's trust. Though Reina wore Casillas's number 1 shirt, it was number 12 Valdés who started.
The keeper who'd pleaded "Casillas, please come back!" before the match had now conceded twice but this save was worthy of being Spain's captain in his prime.
Valdés's heroics inevitably made one recall the 2005-06 Champions League final, when Barcelona overturned Arsenal 2-1 in Paris. Before that match, Valdés had considered leaving Barcelona. Repeated mistakes had drawn media criticism; he'd nearly lost all confidence.
That Champions League final changed Valdés's destiny. The Barcelona keeper saved multiple Arsenal one-on-ones, becoming a crucial architect of the Blaugrana's success.
Before tonight's match, Valdés had said, "I've always maintained that if I could choose my career's most important moment, it would be the 2006 Champions League final at the Stade de France. That night gave me the courage to continue at Barcelona."
Next Wednesday, Valdés would return to Paris with Barcelona, though this time to face Ibrahimović, Pastore, Lavezzi, Lucas Jr., and company at the Parc des Princes—not the Stade de France.
On the pitch, Ribéry remained on his knees after the save, patting his head in frustration before giving Julien a thumbs-up for the assist.
On the touchline, Deschamps had almost raised his arms in celebration, only for Valdés's intervention to force them back down. He grabbed his head in disappointment.
Though Bosque appeared calm beside him, internally he felt like he'd dodged a bullet.
Seeing Ribéry's thumbs-up, Julien couldn't help thinking of Lukaku's infamous "celebration." He shook his head slightly.
The miss meant they'd have to wait for the second half. Spain's style wasted so much time.
But then—
Against Julien's expectations, France created another chance immediately!
After the corner was cleared, Piqué's mistimed header left Giroud facing an open goal. Giroud directed his header toward the net—
But whether from experience after Piqué's earlier error or momentum from his previous save, Valdés had already anticipated it. He charged out, flying through the air to block Giroud's header.
The ball rebounded straight to Xavi, who was immediately pressured by Pogba. The Spanish maestro cleverly took one touch before going to ground.
TWEET!
The referee's whistle. Foul on Pogba.
Pogba spread his arms in disbelief—he felt he'd barely touched Xavi.
Deschamps had been fooled again.
After Valdés's double save, he shouted at his teammates. "This defending—constant one-on-ones, Iam human, not really god!"
His frustration was obvious. He didn't want to keep getting hung out to dry.
Valdés's heroics drew Spanish commentary praise, though tinged with concern. When a goalkeeper has to perform miracles repeatedly, it means the defense has been systematically dismantled.
As they say: weak teams make great goalkeepers.
"After the Finland match, Thiago Silva's accumulated yellow cards triggered an automatic one-match suspension, which was a significant loss for midfield creativity. Bosque decided to start Pedro instead.
This means PR17's supporting cast is Iniesta, Busquets, Villa, or Fàbregas. Undoubtedly, this Barcelona-based starting XI would maximize Pedro's firepower.
Pedro has been the national team's top scorer since the Euros, with seven goals in eight appearances in 2012—the team's leading marksman.
With Villa, Torres, and Negredo all misfiring, Spain's goal-scoring hopes rest heavily on Pedro's shoulders.
Xavi's return should theoretically ensure Spain controls the tempo, and Pedro knows the 'breathing apparatus' midfield familiarly from Barcelona.
Xavi had fully adapted to training intensity and reported no leg discomfort. Xabi Alonso had been battling groin and toe injuries for six weeks, missing the last match, but showed good form in training these past two days.
But!
Judging by tonight's performance, their impact hasn't matched expectations. The Xavi-Alonso-Busquets midfield has been completely overrun by Kanté, Matuidi, and Pogba's French trio.
They can't gain any advantage against France's midfield three. Especially Kanté's suffocating pressure—he's completely neutralized Xavi, Spain's brain.
Meanwhile, Matuidi and Pogba keep delivering inspired passes straight into our defensive heart. Most crucially, Julien and Ribéry's pace poses devastating threat. Nearly all of France's danger comes from wide counterattacks..."
TWEET!
When the referee blew for halftime, the players' reactions told two different stories.
French players felt 2-0 was insufficient—they'd wasted opportunities and should have scored more.
Spanish players looked dazed, bewildered by the torrent of setbacks. Nobody understood what had happened to the team.
How had the championship machine suddenly become... this?
As Julien walked toward the tunnel, chants echoed around him. He smiled and waved to the fans.
Win this match, and France could essentially confirm qualification for next year's World Cup!
In the tunnel, Julien draped his arm around Pogba's shoulders, giving him a thumbs-up, "Not bad tonight, mate."
"Ha! Of course. I've been waiting for a match like this for ages," Pogba grinned.
Julien offered similar praise to Varane, who responded more bashfully.
As the French players entered their locker room with laughter and banter, the Spanish changing room was a tomb. The air was thick with sweat and despair.
For a championship team, this precarious situation was unprecedented in recent years. Drawing 1-1 with Finland, now down 0-2 at halftime in France.
The "Qualifying Kings" title was crumbling.
Once, they'd been qualification royalty—every tournament, every campaign, was smooth progression to the finals.
Once, they'd won three consecutive major tournaments: Euro, World Cup, Euro. The world's invincible force.
This was Spain. This was the red dynasty of La Roja.
But past glory and honor couldn't guarantee passage to next year's World Cup in Brazil.
On the contrary, they were drowning in qualifying quicksand, possibly facing their first failure to reach a finals tournament.
When Bosque entered, Xavi was massaging his knees. Xabi Alonso sat with closed eyes and furrowed brow. Ramos covered his face with a towel. The others' body language screamed defeat.
Bosque sighed, then walked to the center of the room. His voice was low but penetrating,
"Forty-five minutes. 0-2. Down a man. This isn't the script we know, but it's the reality we must face."
He moved to the tactics board, quickly writing one name: Julien De Rocca.
"Julien De Rocca. Nearly all of France's threat tonight has come from him, yet we've found no way to stop him. One goal, one assist, and he forced the red card. Their tactics aren't complex: defend and counter yet we've been dismantled."
As Bosque spoke, Ramos's head dropped lower. The manager didn't even glance in his direction, continuing,
"Yes, he's strong. But what makes him shine isn't his ability—it's our mistakes!
Sergio's red card was one reckless gamble! But what truly destroyed us was the collective panic during those twenty minutes afterward!
We became frightened rabbits, watching one player tear our entire defensive line to shreds!"
His tone sharpened.
"Let's look at the numbers! We may have seventy, eighty percent possession, but is this the tiki-taka we're proud of?! Where's our possession-as-defense? Crushed by France's running and pressing!
Tell me—when was the last time we managed only two shots in a half? 2012? 2010? 2008?!
This isn't Spanish football! These are cowards wearing red shirts!"
The locker room fell into heavy silence. Bosque's gaze swept across them, letting the word "cowards" pierce each heart like a needle.
Even more painful were those three years—all championship years.
Bosque spun suddenly, pointing toward the French locker room, his voice was like a blade,
"Can you hear them? The French are laughing. They're celebrating. They're saying:
'Look! We buried the Spanish dynasty in forty-five minutes!'
Are you content with this?! Content to let Spain, three-time champions, become the world's laughingstock on this Parisian night?! Content to let De Rocca—an eighteen-year-old kid step on our corpse into the World Cup?!"
This torrent seemed to drain the veteran manager's energy. His chest heaved.
The players remained silent.
In truth, 0-2 was just the scoreline. Without Valdés's excellent performance, it would've been far uglier.
Finally, Bosque broke the silence again. He pulled over the tactics board, erasing "Julien De Rocca."
"Second half, I want you to do one thing perfectly: tiki-taka.
Our real possession football. No long balls from the back, no through balls, no wide breakthroughs to the byline. Only combination play in the half-spaces—wall passes, reverse runs, or triangular recycling. Absolutely do not lose possession carelessly. You all know their counter-attacking speed."
This was his tactical philosophy's core: "Possession is defense, passing is attack" the ultimate tiki-taka extreme!
Using Barcelona + Spain's golden triangle—Xavi, Iniesta, Busquets as the axis, he'd construct a "hypnotic passing system." Short passes control rhythm and erode opponents' will.
The creed: "Ball at our feet means no opponent threat."
Offensively, surgical penetration rather than wing crosses or long balls—pursuing "intricate combinations outside the box," half-space infiltration, or killer through balls.
These tactics had been studied for four or five years, by Barcelona and Spain's opponents alike.
France included.
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