The Clairefontaine U21 training complex buzzed with post-training energy. Players gathered in small groups across the pitch, and their voices were creating a familiar noise of banter and laughter.
"Hey, did you hear? Julien De Rocca is coming to give us a talk!"
The noise level dropped instantly.
Anthony Martial was bent over tying his boots when the words reached him. His fingers slowed on the laces, head tilting up as something flickered in his eyes like interest, but was quickly concealed. He ducked his head again, feigning concentration on his boots, but his ears were sharp.
"Seriously? The captain's coming here?"
Kurt Zouma's reaction was the fastest, his face lit up with anticipation.
Nearby, his center-back partner Samuel Umtiti showed more restraint. He toweled off his damp hair while murmuring to Lucas Digne, "Julien's journey... it's not exactly ordinary. Worth hearing what he has to say."
Digne nodded, adjusting his training top collar, curiosity and respect was evident in his expression. "His career trajectory is legendary."
The most complex emotions belonged to Antoine Griezmann.
At the mention of Julien's name, his grip on his water bottle weakened. He didn't join the discussion, just exhaled softly, a complicated smile appeared on his face.
That night—if it hadn't been for Julien...
The incident with the unauthorized night out had exploded in the media. The involved players were heavily punished, head coach Mombaerts nearly lost his job, and Griezmann himself had barely escaped punishment.
He'd carried that debt of gratitude ever since.
But mixed with the gratitude was an indescribable distance. Julien had ascended like a rocket, from the miracle at Bastia to the record-breaking Liverpool transfer, now captain and undisputed core of the national team.
Meanwhile, Griezmann was doing well at Real Sociedad, sure, but it was a La Liga side with less spotlight. Nothing compared to Julien's influence under the Premier League's sunlike glare.
They rarely saw each other. Beyond their brief academy connection, there was hardly any personal relationship.
Sometimes Griezmann felt like they were two lines that had briefly intersected before racing off in opposite directions.
Yet deep down, he desperately wanted to close that distance. He wanted to be more than just Julien's national team colleague—he wanted to be like Giroud or Varane, someone Julien considered a true friend and bro. He craved Julien's recognition, yearned to fight alongside him, whether for the national team or perhaps someday at club level.
Mombaerts heard the players' chatter but didn't stop it. Instead, he checked his watch and called out, "Alright lads, move it! Five minutes. Conference room one. We have a special guest who wants to share something with you all."
His words barely faded before the players exchanged glances and picked up their pace.
The players went into the slightly old conference room, the atmosphere was carrying that particular tension of a formal occasion. But what they saw immediately put them at ease.
Julien was bent over the podium, frowning at an ancient microphone. He blew into it experimentally, tapped it twice—the speakers responded with an ear-piercing feedback squeal.
Hearing footsteps, he looked up at the young players streaming in and broke into a slightly helpless smile.
"Looks like the academy equipment has a bit more history than the first team's." He shrugged, his tone as casual as if chatting with teammates on the training pitch.
That small mishap and Julien's relaxed manner instantly dissolved the last traces of formality in the room.
Zouma was first to crack, laughing loudly and pointing at the microphone. "Julien! That thing's older than my boots! Definitely a loose connection again!"
His booming voice set off the others.
Julien twisted the connection cable and the microphone suddenly produced a clear "pop" and came back to life. He tested it: "Hello? Working now?"
"Yes!" several young players spoke in unison, grinning.
Julien straightened, hands gripping the podium edge, his gaze sweeping across the young, vibrant faces before him. So many familiar ones—these would be the backbone of French football's future.
He didn't waste time.
"Right then," Julien smiled, his expression was now turning serious but remained warm. "Let's begin."
Genuine applause erupted with enthusiasm.
Julien smiled. "Actually, I rarely do this sort of thing. I don't much like dealing with the media either. But since I'm here, I want to say something meaningful.
Let's start with Clairefontaine itself. Every time I come back here—like you—I feel this deep familiarity. This is where I trained as a kid, and these past two years with national team camps, I'm here several times a season.
Today, thanks to Coach Mombaerts giving me this opportunity, I'm standing here not just to look back at my own past, but to talk with you properly about these two words: 'talent.'"
As he shifted into his main topic, Julien's tone grew more serious. The players below settled down, focusing on what their captain had to say.
Julien might be younger than many of them, but he was the national team captain. Age didn't matter. If they made it to the senior squad, he'd still be the one leading them.
"Two and a half years ago, I had no business standing here. I was in Fleury-Mérogis prison, listening to someone in the next cell humming a tune I didn't recognize. It was my seventeenth birthday. No cake, no well-wishes with just stolen cologne in my pocket.
Looking back now, that ridiculous day became the clearest mirror I've ever faced. It showed me who I really was. Talent without respect—for the game, for the opportunity, it just becomes a stone you throw at yourself.
You've probably all heard my story. At fourteen, a Chelsea scout spotted me. I left France for London. Back then, whether it was the Clairefontaine coaches or Chelsea's staff, they all said I was the most naturally gifted in my age group. They'd never seen anyone make feints look as natural as breathing.
So naturally, I got cocky.
I genuinely believed talent meant I could do whatever I wanted. I thought football's magic was in one player tearing apart a defense. I'd predict before matches: 'I'm going to beat their fullback three times today.'
In training, when coaches reminded me about tracking back, I thought they were meddling. If a teammate didn't pass to me, I'd throw my shirt down and walk off.
Chelsea's assistant coach pulled me aside more than once: 'Julien, you can beat three players, but you can't win an entire match alone. Football is an eleven-man game.'
Did I listen? Not a chance. I thought they didn't understand genius. I was obsessed with carrying all the glory on my own shoulders.
And that stubbornness dragged me into the mud.
To prove I could solve everything myself, I deliberately over-trained my dominant side in practice. Even when there was space on the left, I wouldn't pass—I'd force it down the right no matter how many defenders were there. Match after match, I kept trying to bulldoze through.
Eventually, my adductor strain got worse and worse. Then one training session, turning to change direction, my thigh seized up with sharp pain. The doctor said muscle tear: at least three months out.
Lying in that hospital bed, I couldn't even manage a simple pass. Watching my teammates train through the window, I panicked for the first time.
I'd always thought talent was unlimited wealth. But when my body couldn't even work with teammates anymore, what good were fancy feints?
That's when I finally understood what the coach meant—football isn't a one-man sport. Even now, I'm still learning the full weight of those words."
Julien paused there. Below, the players wore thoughtful expressions. Especially Martial—he was beginning to recognize similarities between himself and the young Julien. The realization hit him like cold water.
After a moment, Julien continued. "Last season at Bastia, winning the double—that's when I truly applied those words on the pitch. We kept winning not just because I scored goals. It was Kanté running thirteen kilometers every match. It was Rothen, Van Dijk, Angoula, Choplin—teammates running and defending again and again.
Real winning isn't one person shining. It's everyone willing to build ladders for each other.
Like now, as national team captain, what makes me proudest is seeing teammates willing to run for each other on the pitch.
I often think about what Raphaël Varane told me about joining Real Madrid. He was young then, spent most of his time on the bench, but he'd arrive two hours early every day to work on defensive positioning. Even the goalkeeping coach praised him for understanding how to seize opportunities.
Talent is like God piling tinder in front of you. When you light it, the flames shoot high—warm, bright, making everyone turn to look. But how long that pile burns, how far the light reaches, that depends entirely on whether you keep gathering new wood, whether you carefully tend it, whether you can endure the loneliness of blowing on embers in the ashes to restart the fire.
Remember this: talent is a starting point, not a destination.
And here's what's even more brutal: talent expires. It's like fresh milk with a use-by date, like a battery that runs down. And it expires far faster than most people imagine. While you're still basking in the initial praise that firelight brings, it might already be quietly dimming.
Two years ago in prison, I had this vivid dream. In it, I had no football talent at all. The ball kept slipping away from my feet like it was oiled, but I still chased it desperately, even though every shot flew wide of the post.
Then in some pickup game, I went for a ball near the touchline and my ligament snapped. The doctor said I could never play again. All I could do was sit on the fence by the pitch, watching others run around, so close yet feeling like a lifetime away.
When I woke up from that dream, I stared at the prison ceiling, stunned. What had I been squandering? It was not just my talent, it was the chance to run on a pitch, the purest love for football itself.
You're all standing here now. Some of you just won youth championships. Some are already being watched by major clubs. You're all holding talent others envy.
But remember: talent is never a privilege. It's a responsibility.
Especially because some of you might join the national team, might wear this blue shirt. Then you'll understand: talent is for carrying the team, not for admiring yourself in isolation.
Last year's Euros, we lost in the semi-finals. That night, Zinédine put his hand on my shoulder and said, 'French football's future isn't at one person's feet. It's in the dressing rooms of you young players, in your willingness to shoulder burdens for each other.'
I'm passing those words to you now.
As national team captain, I'm waiting for the day I see you in the senior squad's dressing room—bringing that respect for football, that desire to win together, fighting for France's next championship.
When someone calls you a talented genius someday, don't get carried away like I did. Look down at your boots. Remember the first afternoon you grabbed a football and ran toward a pitch: maybe a gravel street court, maybe a school field.
Back then, your eyes only had room for the ball. That purity is what you must protect above all else.
In football, the applause stops, setbacks come. Talent in good times makes you forget yourself too easily. Perseverance in hard times, that's the real skill.
But as long as you remember that talent is for winning together with teammates, for earning glory for French football, you'll go far.
Alright, that's all from me. The pitch and the ball should do the talking from here.
After all... someone has to bring championships back to France. Why not you?"
When his final words resounded, applause surged from all directions like a tide, quickly building into something fierce and sustained. This wasn't simple politeness, it was genuine resonance and emotion.
The applause continued for nearly a minute before gradually subsiding. The young players didn't immediately start chattering or rushing to leave as usual. Many remained seated, lost in thought.
Julien looked at those young, burning gazes and gave a gentle, slightly weary smile. He set down the microphone without another word, simply nodded to them all, and turned toward the exit.
Griezmann watched Julien's retreating back. Several times he nearly stood up to call out, but each time he suppressed the impulse. How could he approach Julien now? In what capacity?
Griezmann shook his head, but his eyes held determination. He would work hard enough to stand in front of Julien as an equal. He would become his teammate.
At the door, Mombaerts exchanged brief words with Julien before he returned to the senior team. Mombaerts stayed behind to dismiss the group.
Walking back toward the first team's training ground, Julien couldn't help thinking about those players, especially Griezmann and Martial. Both possessed elite talent. He hoped they'd break into the national team soon. France desperately needed depth right now.
The 2014 World Cup would catch France in a transitional phase; one reason was Julien had risen to captain so quickly despite his age. But that also highlighted just how exceptional his talent truly was.
The World Cup qualifiers wouldn't begin until September 6th. France wouldn't depart for Georgia until the 5th, giving them nearly five full days of training. Deschamps didn't waste a moment.
At Clairefontaine. National team camps never allowed time for detailed tactical sessions, most work came through rapid small-sided games and scrimmages to rehearse patterns.
The training session was reaching fever pitch. The starting XI in blue bibs had just completed a defensive sequence. Kanté, near the halfway line, executed a crisp tackle and poked the ball to the arriving Matuidi.
Matuidi quickly found the dropping Ribéry. He received, spun instantly, and used his trademark explosiveness to surge down the left, drawing defensive attention before suddenly whipping a disguised outside-of-the-boot pass. The ball found Valbuena drifting into space with pinpoint accuracy.
"Good ball!" Deschamps shouted from the touchline.
This was Deschamps' system in a small-scale version: swift transition from defense to attack, exploiting individual ability and split-second awareness to strike at defensive weak points with maximum efficiency.
Valbuena controlled neatly on the edge of the box. Facing a recovering defender, he didn't force it. Instead, he laid the ball square toward the penalty spot.
Giroud had already arrived, using his powerful body to shield the center-back, creating space for his teammates.
Meanwhile, Julien, originally positioned on the opposite flank had begun his run the instant Ribéry accelerated. As Valbuena received, Julien was already cutting into the back post.
Giroud faked to shoot but cleverly dummied, letting the ball roll through his legs. Julien arrived perfectly unmarked and slotted home with ease.
He pointed first to Valbuena, then Giroud. Everyone broke into smiles. The chemistry was apparent.
The entire sequence from Kanté's tackle to Julien's finish involved just three passes from Matuidi, Ribéry, to Valbuena and took under eight seconds.
"Beautiful! That's the tempo we need!" Deschamps with arms folded throughout, called out approvingly. "Hard in defense, fast in attack!"
Training continued in that vein through the full session.
During a water break, the players gathered and revisited Julien's goal.
"Julien, that timing on your run was perfect," Ribéry said while toweling off with admiration.
Julien smiled while unscrewing his water bottle. "You opened up the defense first, Franck. You and Mathieu linking up was the key."
"What about my dummy?" Giroud joined them, grinning. "I was the perfect wall for you two!"
In a while, the break ended. Deschamps continued: "Stay focused. Remember our principles: after winning the ball, get through midfield quickly. Forwards must be brave making runs into space. Our advantage is the individual quality and understanding of our attacking players."
Training resumed with Deschamps constantly emphasizing defensive compactness and intelligent off-ball movement in transition.
By the time they finished, sunset had turned the sky orange.
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