In France's locker room, Deschamps wore a smile but maintained seriousness as he summarized the first half.
"The defense! That's what matters most now! Don't commit rashly, don't press carelessly. Always maintain your position. On the flanks, deny penetration but allow crosses—we dominate aerially.
And absolutely don't press aggressively. Just block passing lanes and deny comfortable forward movements. Don't press! They're not desperate, so neither are we. Stay disciplined!"
The players nodded agreement.
Indeed, Deschamps leaned utilitarian—he didn't care about the scoreline as long as they won. The players were happy to waste time this way, content to play Spain's passing game.
After all, the season was reaching its climax. All competitions entering final stages meant heavy player workload.
Next week in the Champions League, Barcelona would visit Parc des Princes for the quarterfinal first leg. That match featured eight Barcelona players but only three from PSG.
After everything was arranged, Deschamps sat beside Julien, "Second half, give me twenty hard minutes. Around the sixty-fifth minute, I'll substitute you. Manage your energy accordingly."
"Understood."
Julien nodded. After his recent attribute improvements, his stamina was decent. More importantly, with experience, he'd learned how to rest on the pitch, when to conserve energy, when to coast.
Soon, halftime ended. Both teams returned to the Stade de France. French fans erupted again, unleashing their passion.
At kickoff, cameras focused on Julien.
The TF1 commentator said: "First half, Julien delivered a goal and an assist—absolutely instrumental in our lead. Let's see his second-half performance. Of course, Bosque will surely intensify marking on him. But I'm curious how Spain plans to both defend Julien and mount a comeback with ten men..."
The answer was they couldn't.
Just five minutes into the second half, when Spain attempted to attack, Varane intercepted and launched a long ball toward Julien.
Monreal and Xabi Alonso double-teamed him. Yet Julien used footwork and rhythm to create separation between them, then accelerated through the gap.
However, Monreal's jersey tug came at the right moment—combined with physical contact, it prevented Julien's escape. The French counter was destroyed.
But Julien went down, and referee Kuipers showed no hesitation—yellow card for Monreal.
The Spaniard spread his arms at the official. Kuipers shook his head.
BOOOO!
French fans on the right side jeered. Those in front shouted in English: "Stop complaining! You can't stop Julien without fouling!"
Pogba helped Julien to his feet.
The free kick position was too distant for a direct shot. But Matuidi didn't rush the restart. He waited until teammates pushed into the attacking half before playing it.
Spain dropped everyone back, knowing France would likely launch another wave.
For Spain's midfield, stamina was becoming critical. Xavi and Xabi Alonso were returning from injury. Busquets and Iniesta had been playing constantly at club level.
THUMP!
Matuidi delivered the ball—not to the right flank, Spain's defensive focus, but switching to the far side.
Ribéry received, now confident facing Arbeloa one-on-one. But Pedro had tracked back to help.
Ribéry wasn't reckless. Unable to break through, he recycled to overlapping Evra. The left-back drove down the line but couldn't shake Arbeloa. After advancing, he passed back to Ribéry.
Evra's run had flattened Spain's defensive shape, though.
The ball circulated, eventually reaching Julien on the right. He didn't try penetrating toward the byline. Instead, he let overlapping Christopher Jallet occupy that space while he dropped deep to receive.
Monreal and Iniesta's positioning shifted as Julien withdrew. Iniesta followed Jallet's movement—Monreal still marked Julien.
Facing one-on-one coverage, Julien remained composed. He didn't move immediately, even stepping on the ball while scanning central and far-post options.
Most importantly, he read the defensive shape.
After Jallet's overlap, Julien's spatial freedom had increased significantly. Busquets, who'd dropped deep, now pressed forward to support.
The instant Busquets moved; Julien struck.
He dropped his shoulder right—Monreal, like a startled deer, reacted instantly.
But the ball hadn't moved. It remained stationary.
As Monreal lunged, Julien stopped, reset his body position, and knocked the ball left. He cut inside!
Monreal realized he'd been deceived. He tried recovering, pushing off to chase but Julien had already created separation. No way he'd catch up now.
Cutting through the channel Spain's compact shape had left exposed, Julien advanced. Busquets sensed danger. Villa had also tracked back into Julien's path.
But Villa's defending was basically optical, existing only in theory. Julien shifted past him with one touch.
Two or three steps from the penalty area, Busquets assumed Julien would drive into the box. He didn't dare commit.
That space—Julien spotted it!
CRACK!
In full stride, Julien suddenly unleashed his left foot, whipping a curling shot toward goal. The ball arced viciously toward the far corner.
This strike shifted Julien's entire center of gravity. He collided with Busquets, who'd belatedly tried blocking. Both went down, immediately turning their heads toward goal.
Valdés launched himself desperately. Too late.
The ball thundered into the net!
Julien pounded the turf in exhilaration, then sprang up and slid on his knees toward the touchline. Arms spread wide; his body emitted youthful energy!
54th minute. 3-0.
France was forty minutes from victory.
As Julien's slide ended, he rose smoothly and walked to the corner flag. He grabbed the flag bearing France's national team crest and pointed to his chest with his other hand.
BRACE!
"JULIEN!"
Fans exploded in frenzy, waving frantically, roaring his name, some even trying to jump barriers before security intervened.
At the Sunset Café, the TF1 broadcast commentary erupted,
"BUUUUUT!! Cutting inside, explosive finish! Julien again! My God! Spain's defense torn apart once more by Julien! Tonight, Spain's fullbacks have been reduced to training cones!
Monreal, Arbeloa—both nothing but toys for Julien and Ribéry.
This time, Julien's cut-inside came because Monreal couldn't match his rhythm, losing position first. Busquets couldn't close fast enough—Julien shot right in his face!
That cutting, curling left-foot finish into the top corner—only elite wingers produce moments like this. Right now, Julien is undoubtedly one of the world's top right wingers!"
Someone in the crowd shouted: "Not one of!"
"Right! Not one of!"
"Julien IS the world's best right winger! No—not just winger. He's the best player! No qualification needed!"
Bastia fans poured out every ounce of devotion. Julien was their most beloved player. They wouldn't tolerate any hedging, not even "one of."
To them, Julien was the absolute best. Always. Everywhere. Forever.
In a luxurious mansion on Madrid's outskirts, Florentino Pérez turned to his trusted advisor, Zinedine Zidane, "Could Julien start at Real Madrid?"
Zidane nodded firmly, "I underestimated him before. Now? He absolutely deserves to start at Madrid. As an undisputed first-choice."
Florentino didn't respond immediately, his eyes were fixed on the television screen, on that confident young man.
He admitted it: he was tempted.
Under his direction, Madrid's transfer policy typically avoided young players. They didn't even use Castilla players much—Madrid needed established stars with both reputation and proven quality.
Now, as Madrid needed change, he'd set his sights on Bale.
But after these recent matches, Florentino found himself increasingly drawn to Julien.
Yet something puzzled him. Zidane had strongly advocated signing Varane, but why hadn't he pushed as actively for Julien?
"Do you think Madrid should sign Julien?" Florentino asked.
Zidane hesitated. He couldn't push Julien toward a potential disaster. Everything he knew hinted Madrid faced internal upheaval. Even the manager's position remained uncertain.
He shook his head, "Rationally? Julien is very young and has an injury history. His talent is unquestionable, but he's only proven himself in Ligue 1—that level of competition doesn't prove everything.
Emotionally? Of course, I'd love to see Julien at a top club like Madrid. However, signing him might require... resolving another player situation first."
"Who?"
"Karim."
Zidane explained, "Julien and Karim don't have a good relationship. Karim's exclusion from the national team involves complicated factors, and I suspect Julien would insist we deal with Karim first."
Florentino's brow furrowed. He disliked being dictated to by players, especially regarding squad composition based on personal preferences.
Silence fell.
Zidane's gaze returned to the television, calm and steady. The match continued, but Spain's spirit had shattered.
Spain gradually lost even possession. France began controlling the ball—for Spain, adding insult to injury.
After conceding the third goal, Bosque substituted defender Navas for Villa. The veteran manager's message was clear: damage limitation.
Meanwhile, Deschamps prepared his substitutions.
At 65th minute.
France won another attacking free kick, though the distance was substantial.
Matuidi whipped the ball into the box. Everyone flocked. In the chaos, Giroud took an elbow to the head from retreating Piqué and collapsed inside the area.
TWEET!
Kuipers didn't hesitate. His whistle pierced the air, arm pointing directly at the penalty spot. Decisively!
Piqué looked stunned, "I didn't initiate contact! He ran into my elbow! I was just maintaining balance—"
He shrugged, spread his arms, protested nonstop. Other Spanish players surrounded the referee, "That's not a penalty!"
Kuipers kept shaking his head, gesturing for them to back away.
French players formed a protective wall around the Ref. Julien, as captain, stepped between the referee and Piqué, pulling him away while pointing at Giroud,
"Look at him! He's bleeding! How is that not a foul?"
Indeed, Giroud's eyebrow had split open, blood was streaming down his face. Medical staff rushed on to bandage the wound.
Piqué grimaced, feeling cursed by fate. He'd only been trying to keep balance and maybe nudge the Frenchman—just a routine elbow.
He walked over to apologize to Giroud, checking if he was alright.
It was another chaotic interruption.
Deschamps remained calm on the touchline. The more time was wasted, the better for France. At 3-0, he felt completely confident.
What could Spain do to turn this around? An aging Villa, locked down by Varane? Pedro? Hope their midfield could pass through?
Times have changed, Deschamps thought. This is the era of counter-attacking football. How will Spain's tiki-taka break down massed defenses?
On the pitch, after medics wrapped Giroud's head in gauze, he stood up. Julien patted his shoulder, "Now you look like a warrior. Light wounds don't leave the battlefield."
Giroud tested his movement, "Don't worry, Julien. This won't stop me from smashing the ball into Spain's goal."
Julien nodded. He believed it. Eyebrow cuts looked worse than they were as they usually didn't affect performance.
Soon, Julien collected the ball and placed it on the penalty spot. He stepped back several paces, eyes locked on Valdés. His gaze was ice-cold, utterly composed.
He knew countless eyes were watching him, focused entirely on this moment. And Julien lived for it—thrived in the spotlight, relished being the center of attention.
Indeed, across France and Spain, in countless locations, innumerable people stared at Julien.
Though this goal might not affect the match outcome, it held different significance—for Julien personally, for Spanish football's pride.
On the touchline, Deschamps and Bosque both watched intently.
TWEET!
The whistle.
Julien exhaled softly, then began his run-up. His eyes were fixed on Valdés. Just before striking the ball, he paused—barely a second's hesitation in his motion.
That pause—with Valdés hyper-focused on every micro-movement triggered the keeper like a hair-trigger. He dove instantly.
Next moment, Julien flicked his ankle, gently rolling the ball to Valdés's opposite side.
No obstacle. The ball nestled into the net with ease.
4-0!
Julien with four goal involvements: hat-trick plus assist!
This time he didn't sprint to the stands. He simply spread his arms where he stood, turning slowly in a circle.
The crowd's roar was humongous,
"JULIEN!"
"JULIEN!!!"
Teammates mobbed him, ecstatic.
Four-nil!
Though Spain was down a man, this scoreline was beyond their wildest expectations.
"Julien, you're a god!" Pogba screamed from within the celebration.
His words echoed every teammate's thoughts. Tonight, Julien had been absurdly, impossibly dominant.
Behind them, Spanish players trudged back toward the center circle, heads bowed in defeat.
These former champions had to face a brutal reality: they'd be fighting through the playoffs—if they even qualified for them.
On the touchline, Deschamps was in a state of wild euphoria. He pumped his fists, roaring along with the fans. His limbs felt restless, charged with energy, he wanted nothing more than to join the stadium-wide celebration, swaying to the rhythm of 80,000 voices.
But Deschamps's excitement transcended this single victory. When he pulled assistant coach Stéphan into a tight embrace, he shouted into his ear: "I found it! I found France's path forward!!"
Stéphan understood exactly what he meant.
The France of recent years had offered no glimpse of hope. Forwards too weak to score. Midfielders too weak to control games. Defenders too weak to prevent goals.
But now? France was reborn!
After wholesale personnel changes, Deschamps had finally glimpsed championship potential. He felt confident, genuinely confident that he could lead France to silverware.
While the Stade de France celebrated, Spanish commentary struck a mournful tone, "Look at the touchline—Coach Bosque with his face buried in his hands, his figure seeming to age a decade in an instant.
Once upon a time, World Cup qualifiers and Euro qualifiers were mere coronation ceremonies for this invincible armada! We'd dissect opponents with surgical passing like casual training exercises, securing qualification with matches to spare. Our points advantage at the top of the table was a monarch's crown!
But now?
La Roja's qualifying journey has become treacherous, each step tortuous and painful! After the home draw with Finland, Marca's front page screamed like an alarm bell: 'Struggling Through Qualifiers! This Foreshadows a World Cup Campaign on Thin Ice!'
Now that prophecy manifests in the cruelest possible way.
And the architect of this destruction? Julien De Rocca—just eighteen years old! For him, a hat-trick seems like another Tuesday afternoon training session.
Free kick, open play, penalty, plus an assist. He's been everywhere tonight.
Beyond De Rocca's individual brilliance, reviewing these seventy minutes—the chances France have created, both quantity and quality, rival our own peak performances!
Especially that 39th-minute sequence: De Rocca's pass bisecting the entire defense, Ribéry gliding past Arbeloa like a training cone, bearing down on Valdés one-on-one. Without our goalkeeper's divine intervention, France would've extended their lead long ago. That was a glaring warning sign!
Not to mention the four actual goals.
Compared to our three-championship era, this Spain's greatest vulnerability is defense. The once-impregnable wall of Piqué and Puyol now shows cracks throughout.
Piqué's strenuous turns, Puyol's injury absence—this backline crumbles under the speed and skill of players like De Rocca and Ribéry!
Looking at midfield and attack, the problems run equally deep. Our 'brain,' Xavi, turns 34 next year! After a grueling season, how much fuel remains in the maestro's tank? Can his passes still cut like scalpels? Can his body endure 90 minutes of high-intensity warfare?
Enormous question marks hover over La Roja's heart!
As for the forward line? Bosque faces an embarrassment of riches that somehow yields poverty. Villa? Pedro? Torres? Plenty of options, yet who's the definitive number nine who can decide matches?
Don't forget—last year's Euros, we experimented with a 'false nine' system that Italy's concrete defense neutralized in the group stage! On the World Cup's brutal battlefield, Spain needs a battering ram who can occupy the box and break down walls! That candidate remains shrouded in fog..."
The broadcast kept replaying Julien's celebration. The Spanish commentator could only continue, helplessly,
"All this confusion, struggle, and the overture to collapse—tonight, a young man named Julien De Rocca has exposed it all before the watching world with a blood-soaked hat-trick and a clinical assist!
He didn't just score three goals. He proclaimed through action that Spain's dynastic twilight may already be upon us. If we continue being complacent, we might not even reach the World Cup—our journey could end right here in qualifying..."
Spanish fans watched the French celebration with lifeless eyes, their expressions as lost and bewildered as their players on the pitch.
They didn't understand what had happened. Didn't understand how it had come to this.
At the Stade de France, elation was everywhere. Songs, cheers, and chants never stopped. France celebrated without restraint!
This 4-0 scoreline basically confirmed their advance to the Brazil World Cup!
In the stands, President Hollande desperately wanted to laugh freely but felt the setting inappropriate. He maintained a smile while mentally reviewing every sad moment of his life, anything to suppress the urge to leap up and celebrate.
Prime Minister Rajoy, by contrast, demonstrated a politician's true craft—his face remained peacefully neutral. He even managed conversation with Hollande:
"That Julien is quite something. Such composure for someone so young—the bearing of a champion."
Hollande offered only perfunctory responses, not daring to engage fully. One wrong word and his suppressed grin would shatter completely.
TWEET!
The match resumed amid grand celebration, though Spanish players had lost all fighting spirit.
Just three minutes later, Deschamps substituted Julien off.
Every French fan in the Stade de France rose to their feet, applauding. Many shouted his name with raw emotion.
From one corner, a song began spreading. It was the Bastia fans starting a chant:
"Beneath France's starlit sky,
We sing your name, we sing it high!
Julien! Julien! Our pride, our flame!
The world will tremble at your name!
From Corsica to Paris lights,
You wear the blue through endless nights,
Julien! Julien! Lead us to glory,
Write us into history's story!
Allez! Allez! Allez les Bleus!
Julien will see us through!
Until the World Cup is ours to claim,
We'll sing forever Julien's name!"
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