Sunset Café Bar, Bastia
The salt-heavy sea breeze swept through the open wooden shutters, mingling with the thick aroma of pastis and espresso that hung in the air like a warm blanket.
When Julien's volley thundered into the net on the television screen, the entire café erupted in a Mediterranean frenzy that threatened to lift the roof clean off its foundations.
"I KNEW IT!" Martin slammed his glass down on the scarred wooden table with such force that amber liquid splashed across the surface. "Julien was born for this! Born for the spotlight! From the day he led us to the Ligue 1 title, I said it—the winds of Corsica and the Mediterranean waves would carry him to the summit of world football!"
Around him, the other regulars roared their agreement, voices competing to be heard over the din.
"See that, you English bastards? THAT'S French talent! Your precious media spent all summer crying about 'Ligue 1 not being competitive enough'—so who's playing in the farmer's league now?"
"Those London pricks better open their eyes! Complaining about eighty million? That was the friendship price! He's worth a hundred million at least! That strike alone was worth half the fee! Your so-called Premier League hard men can't even get close enough to touch his shirt!"
Laughter and celebration filled every corner of the café; the atmosphere was filled with pride and vindication.
Bertrand watched the fans with a smile. He loved these moments—the raw passion, the familial loyalty. But underneath the joy, a melancholy lingered. Seeing Julien in any shirt but Bastia's blue still felt wrong somehow, like watching a part of his own history drift away on the tide.
There was an emptiness to it. A withdrawal symptom that refused to fade.
"He's from Bastia! He's destroying the Premier League! Let the Wembley guard dogs bark all they want!"
"Can you hear us, Marseille? Are you watching, Paris? It's OUR boy from Bastia teaching the English how to play football!"
The words stirred something in Bertrand. He turned toward the yellowed wall where a photograph of Julien in Bastia colors hung like a shrine, and spoke quietly but clearly: "Those English pundits weren't questioning Julien. They were questioning all of French football."
Heads nodded around the room. Everyone understood that truth.
The English—always so bloody arrogant. So desperate to protect their precious league's reputation.
"They'll never understand!" Modoso was gloriously drunk now, swaying slightly as he raised his glass toward Bertrand. "The English only know how to run and crash into people. But Julien? Julien plays with his brain and his technique! That strike was pure art—they could train for a hundred years and never learn it!"
It wasn't just the Sunset Café Bar experiencing this revelation.
Across Bastia, from the old port to the citadel, the locals were united in belief: their boy was writing French football's proudest chapter in the most spectacular fashion imaginable.
Anfield Stadium
The stands at Anfield roiled like a red ocean in a storm, fifty-four thousand voices were combining into a continuous roar that made the stadium's bones vibrate.
"JULIEN!"
"JULIEN!"
"JULIEN!"
The chant originated in the Kop and spread like wildfire, consuming the entire ground within seconds.
Fans leaned over barriers, faces flushed with excitement, discussing what they'd just witnessed.
"Did you see that strike? Eighty million's well spent!"
"His shooting technique—reminds me of Fowler in his prime."
"Absolutely. With finishing like that, he can't possibly be a flop. No chance in hell."
On the touchline, Mark Hughes stood with arms folded across his chest, his Welsh features set in stone.
He squeezed the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger—his tell when trying to suppress frustration.
He'd planned every defensive detail meticulously. But he'd forgotten the most vital truth of all: genius doesn't care about your tactical board.
He needed to increase the physical intensity against Julien. Double it. Triple it if necessary.
As his players trudged back to the center circle, Hughes called Pieters over, his voice low and urgent. "Increase the physicality. Don't let him receive comfortably."
"Right, boss." Pieters nodded firmly. As a defender, allowing an opposing forward to repeatedly beat you in your own zone was nothing short of humiliating.
Rodgers was shouting similar instructions, demanding his team maintain the pressure and intensity.
Fweeeeet!
The referee's whistle sliced the noise. The match resumed.
Liverpool's pressing game was relentless now, forcing Stoke to cough up possession almost immediately. But Hughes's men had prepared for exactly this scenario—they dropped deep into a compact defensive shape the moment they lost the ball.
Pieters was now marking Julien like a shadow, barely giving him breathing room.
When Henderson eased a pass into Julien's feet, Pieters immediately used his body to apply pressure, trying to muscle the younger man off the ball.
But Julien didn't attempt to fight strength with strength. Instead, he shifted his weight gracefully, letting the ball run across his body before flicking it with the outside of his right boot to find Sturridge's diagonal run.
Pieters felt like he'd thrown a punch at thin air.
Roaaaaaar!
The Kop erupted in appreciation of the silky skill, applauding the deft piece of technique.
This kid had genuine ability. The real deal.
Many fans had never seen a player with Julien's height possess such quick feet and technical refinement. It defied the usual physical logic of the sport.
Liverpool continued to probe, trying to unpick Stoke's defensive lock. But with eleven men behind the ball, the opportunities were scarce.
Gerrard was forced to recycle possession back to Julien, hoping the young Frenchman could use his individual quality to create something from nothing.
The instant Julien received the ball; Pieters was on him.
In the referee's blind spot, the defender drove his left elbow into Julien's lower back, trying to force him toward the touchline. Simultaneously, N'Zonzi closed from the front, creating a pincer movement.
Julien felt the nudge and the pressure building behind him. Rather than resist, he leaned into it slightly, stumbling forward half a step as if losing his balance. The movement encouraged Pieters to push even harder, committing more weight forward.
At the precise moment Pieters was fully committed, Julien used his right heel to flick the ball backward through the defender's legs. As it nutmegged Pieters cleanly, Julien used the defender's own momentum to spin away gracefully, his long legs carrying him past the flat-footed center back.
N'Zonzi lunged desperately with an outstretched leg.
But Julien had already anticipated it. He pulled off a perfect elastico, using the inside and outside of his foot in rapid series to snake past the challenge.
N'Zonzi knew instinctively that allowing Julien to break free here would be catastrophic.
Without thinking, his hand shot out and grabbed a fistful of shirt. His trailing leg followed, attempting to obstruct Julien's path. Julien knocked the ball forward and went down.
Fweeeeeet!
The referee's whistle was instant and shrill.
N'Zonzi threw both hands in the air, his face showing innocence as he rushed toward the official. "I got the ball first, ref! That's not a foul! He went down like he'd been shot! It's a dive—one touch and he throws himself to the ground!"
Meanwhile, Julien remained on the turf clutching his ankle, his face contorted in apparent agony. Though N'Zonzi had barely caught him, Julien's acting skills were Oscar-worthy.
It was a required course for modern forwards: knowing when to go down, when to stay up, understanding the dark arts of winning decisions. You couldn't be a truly elite striker without mastering the acting elements of the game.
The referee pushed through the protesting Stoke players with calmness, reaching into his breast pocket to produce a yellow card that glinted under the floodlights.
"You pulled his shirt! Clear tactical foul!"
He pointed firmly at the spot where Julien had been brought down.
A free kick in a dangerous position—perfect striking range.
On the touchline, Mark Hughes went ballistic, practically stepping onto the pitch. "What the hell kind of foul is that?! He's acting! Can't you see he's bloody acting?!"
The fourth official had to physically restrain the furious Welshman.
On the opposite side, Rodgers's mood had swung from fury at seeing Julien fouled to satisfaction at watching the perpetrator get booked. He applauded vigorously, roaring toward his players: "Stay focused! Keep your shape!"
The Kop was a torrent of boos and jeers aimed at the Stoke defenders.
After seeing the referee wave the card, Julien waved away the medical team. He adjusted his socks casually, then allowed his teammates to pull him to his feet.
Gerrard approached; the captain's armband bright against his red sleeve. "Can you take this one?"
During training, Gerrard had witnessed Julien's dead-ball ability. On this night, he had no problem letting the youngster take center stage. Anfield needed new blood, new heroes to worship.
Julien's grin was confident. "Absolutely."
"It's yours then."
"Cheers, skipper."
Players quickly assumed their positions. The free kick was well-placed, though positioned slightly right of center—arguably better suited for a left-footed strike.
Julien and Gerrard stood on either side of the ball, a classic double-bluff setup.
Martin Tyler's commentary filled living rooms across the country: "Liverpool have been awarded a free kick in prime territory. The angle is perfect for a left-footer—you can go for the curl into the near post or blast it toward the far corner.
Now we have a fascinating sight: both Gerrard and Julien standing over the ball. This is tactical gamesmanship at its finest. Stoke's wall and goalkeeper have to guess: who's actually taking it?
Historically, Gerrard is Liverpool's undisputed first-choice set-piece taker. His thunderbolt shooting and curling ability are legendary in the Premier League.
But Julien scored from free kicks during his time at Bastia, so he's certainly capable of taking this himself.
Let's see what happens..."
Fweeeet!
The referee's whistle cut through the tension.
Every person in the stadium held their breath, eyes locked on Gerrard and Julien. The guessing game was agonizing.
Fans raised their hands to chest height in a superstitious ritual. If the ball went in, those hands would shoot to sky in celebration. If it missed, they'd clutch their heads in despair. It was a well-practiced routine.
When the whistle blew, Julien stood over the ball, his gaze fixed down, running through the process in his mind.
Gerrard made his run first, feinting as if to strike. The Stoke wall flinched, players jumping prematurely.
That split-second hesitation was all Julien needed.
He exploded forward in three powerful strides. His left leg whipped through like a coiled spring releasing, the inside of his boot connecting with the bottom third of the ball. At the point of contact, his ankle rotated sharply, imparting wicked spin.
The ball rose viciously, curving first around the outside of the wall, then bending viciously back toward goal.
His improved shooting attributes were making everything feel natural, instinctive.
Begović had been shuffling toward the far post, anticipating a conventional strike. He tried to correct his positioning mid-flight, his feet tangling as he nearly fell over.
The ball clipped the intersection where crossbar met post, smashing into the net with such force that the mesh wafted.
GOOOOOOOAL!
2-0!
The instant the net swelled, Julien launched into a knee slide that carried him all the way to the front of the Kop. In front of football's most famous stand, he hammered his fists against the Liverpool crest on his chest, then spread his arms wide and closed his eyes, tilting his face toward the lights.
The Kop responded by recreating the iconic Shankly statue pose—thousands of outstretched palms raised toward their new hero.
The entire stand had transformed into a living, breathing monument.
Julien held the pose, chest heaving with exertion and emotion as the noise crashed over him.
Gerrard reached him first, grabbing his face between both palms in that signature gesture, pressing foreheads together as he roared over the deafening noise: "EXACTLY LIKE THAT, SON! THIS IS WHAT ANFIELD DEMANDS!"
The rest of the team mobbed them within seconds, a pile of red shirts and delirious grins.
Henderson was more restrained in his celebration as that was his personality, but the redness creeping up his neck revealed his excitement. He faced the crowd with both arms raised, conducting the symphony of sound, doing what he did best—rousing the supporters.
"Easy on the hair, lads!" Julien protested from the center of the scrum, laughing.
Nobody paid attention. Gerrard ruffled his hair twice more for good measure—a Liverpool dressing room tradition signifying acceptance.
Finally, the captain's voice cut through the celebration: "Keep your heads! The match isn't over!"
This was just one corner of Anfield's jubilation.
Martin Tyler's voice cracked with emotion in the commentary box: "OH MY WORD! Absolutely unbelievable! Julien De Rocca! That free kick looked like it came straight out of a coaching manual! You have to see the replay—watch that curve, that dip. My goodness, it's sublime.
Begović was completely deceived. His weight shifted toward the far post, and by the time he realized the ball's trajectory, it was already too late!
This is what genuine talent looks like, ladies and gentlemen! Remember what I'm about to say: you cannot teach this kind of strike. It's a gift from above!
An eighteen-year-old kid, under the pressure of his Premier League debut, with fifty-four thousand eyes boring into him, produces a free kick worth its weight in gold!
That's Julien's second goal tonight. First, a volley from outside the box. Now, a direct free kick. Two completely different methods of attack, the same exquisite execution.
I imagine Liverpool fans are beside themselves right now. After all the questions about the eighty-million-pound fee, who dares call it excessive now? Who dares suggest he doesn't deserve top wages?
Look at this celebration at Anfield! The supporters are answering those doubters with sheer volume: this wasn't a gamble—this was highway robbery! They've stolen a goldmine from France!
When Gerrard stepped aside to let the youngster take that free kick, it felt symbolic. The captain is in the twilight of his career. Seeing this eighteen-year-old prodigy must remind him of his own youth.
Think about it: while other clubs' big-money signings are still adjusting to the pace of English football, Liverpool's eighty-million-pound man has announced his arrival with a brace in the opening half hour.
This isn't just value for money—it's bragging rights.
The Kop is already singing 'You'll Never Walk Alone.' When was the last time Anfield went this wild for a new signing?
From this day forward, Julien De Rocca's name will no longer be associated with the word 'flop.' Instead, it will walk hand-in-hand with 'legend.'
Perhaps this young man, who has been creating miracles since his first steps in professional football, will write another legendary chapter at Liverpool..."
Whether in the stadium or online, Liverpool supporters had reached fever pitch. Julien had demolished every doubt with two perfect strikes.
"Eighty million? CHEAP! Absolute bargain! That free kick alone was worth half the fee! Look at that curve! Look at Begović's face! He didn't even get close!"
"Oi! Did you see that?! DID YOU FUCKING SEE THAT?! I told you! I TOLD you he wasn't a flop! Top wages? He DESERVES top wages! Gerrard let him take it! Do you understand what that means?! That means EVERYTHING!"
"Hey @ManUtd, is Rooney's elevator still broken? Come watch Julien's free kick if you want to see what real talent looks like! Take notes, lads! Hahaha!"
"I've supported Liverpool for forty years. From Dalglish to Fowler, from Owen to Torres. But this kid... this kid has something different. That composure, that confidence—he looks like he was born for Anfield's big occasions.
Goal of the season secured, and it's only the first match! Can't wait to see him do it against Chelsea, against United. Just imagine—we won't have to rely solely on Gerrard for free kicks anymore!"
"Where are the idiots calling him 'Friendly Match King' now? Come out and show yourselves! Premier League defenders can't handle him! Dutch internationals getting embarrassed!"
"JULIEN I LOVE YOUUUUU!!!"
"New scripture: Thou shalt not give Liverpool a free kick on the edge of the box, unless you enjoy watching Julien's artistic exhibitions."
"Eh, not bad. Pretty standard world-class goal, really. Hope he scores something more ordinary next time—can't keep setting the bar this high for ourselves."
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