This attack was merely a probing attempt from France and Julien.
The match continued.
France maintained relentless pressure on Georgia, particularly in midfield. Deschamps' instructions were clear: run without mercy, press without pause. Give Georgia no room to breathe, no space to organize.
Their central and defensive midfielders could barely touch the ball with any composure. Every attempted ground pass toward the flanks was met with France's lightning-fast joint movement, cutting off passing lanes before they could fully open. Under this suffocating pressure, Georgia's attacking moves were strangled in their infancy.
Faced with such suffocating intensity, Georgia's offensive options became desperately limited.
They resorted to launching long balls from deep positions, hoping their isolated striker Kobakhidze could win aerial duels and provide some relief. But this crude approach yielded pitiful returns. France's center-back pairing of Koscielny and Abidal dominated in height, physicality, and positioning, comfortably dealing with the aerial bombardment. On the rare occasions Kobakhidze managed to get a touch, Gilavogui swept up the second balls.
This was exactly the scenario Deschamps craved.
Possession firmly in French hands, Georgia pinned in their own half, drowning in defensive duties. Their attacking threat had been castrated, while France could patiently probe for cracks in a defense under constant siege.
The match was unfolding precisely according to Deschamps' blueprint.
Meanwhile, on the opposite touchline, Georgian coach Ketsbaia stood with clenched fists, anxiety gnawing at his composure. He paced the technical area restlessly, brow furrowed, eyes locked on his struggling defensive line. The pressure on both flanks was suffocating.
On the left, Ribéry exploited his explosive acceleration and physical strength, repeatedly hammering Georgia's right side. His diagonal runs pulled defenders out of position, destabilizing the entire backline.
But what truly terrified Ketsbaia was the threat on the opposite flank: Julien.
Julien's approach was more subtle, more infuriating. His mesmerizing technical ability and unpredictable rhythm changes made left-back Grigalava look clumsy and overwhelmed.
A simple shoulder drop, a sudden change of direction, these were enough to create space for crosses or cutting inside. Georgia's defensive midfielder was forced to cover repeatedly, leaving deep holes in central areas for France's onrushing midfielders to exploit.
"Hold your shape! Protect the middle!" Ketsbaia shouted toward the pitch, but his voice was quickly swallowed by France's relentless waves of attack.
17th minute.
Julien received the ball on the right touchline, back to goal. Grigalava immediately pressed tight against him. Julien dragged the ball backward with his right foot while dropping his left shoulder sharply, his entire body was feinting an inside turn.
Grigalava's weight shifted instantly to cover that movement.
The moment the defender committed, Julien's right foot flicked the ball forward with the outside of his boot, exploding past him on the outside. Grigalava twisted to give chase, but he was already two yards behind after that first step.
Defensive midfielder Kankava slid across to close the gap. As Julien advanced with the ball, just before contact, he pushed it further right, selling the fake of continuing down the line. Kankava lunged to block the outside channel.
But in that split second, Julien chopped the ball back across his body with the inside of his boot and pushed it forward in one smooth motion—a textbook croqueta. Kankava was left grasping at air as Julien glided past him without even drawing a foul.
Now inside the penalty area, having beaten two men, Julien had torn Georgia's defensive structure to shreds.
Cutting into the right side of the box after eliminating two defenders, Julien drove directly toward the six-yard line, forcing left center-back Khubutia to step up and engage. The instant Khubutia committed, Julien slipped a perfectly weighted pass into the path of the onrushing Giroud.
With his back to goal and Amisulashvili tight on him, Giroud avoided the turn. Instead, he back-heeled the ball delicately behind him making a brilliant one-two combination. The ball rolled perfectly into Julien's continued run.
Georgia's defense was in complete disarray. Defensive midfielder Kashia, the recovering Kankava, and left center-back Khubutia all converged on Julien simultaneously. They knew they had to stop him. In just fifteen minutes, this eighteen-year-old had already shown them what genuine world-class talent looked like.
The space collapsed around him.
Julien shielded the ball as Kankava arrived from behind, attempting to disrupt his control without committing a foul. Kashia and Khubutia sealed off the front, dropping their center of gravity, determined to prevent a turn or shot.
Every eye in the stadium focused on that tiny pocket of space. What would Julien do?
Without hesitation, Julien dragged the ball with his left foot while dropping his left shoulder, appearing to rotate left. The feint instantly shifted Kashia's weight to his right side, Julien's left, creating the smallest of gaps between him and Khubutia.
In that microsecond, as Kashia's balance shifted and the minuscule seam opened, Julien's movement continued without pause. His left foot, having dragged the ball, planted as his pivot while his body whipped back to the right like a coiled spring releasing.
And in that same motion, hidden within the turn, his right instep struck the ball with brutal precision.
The entire shooting motion was camouflaged within the feint, there was minimal backlift, compact follow-through in disguise. The ball didn't rise. Instead, it skimmed along the grass in a vicious line, easing through the half-step gap Kashia's movement had created, arrowing toward the far post.
Swish.
The ball nestled into the net.
Goalkeeper Loria stood frozen, watching the ball emerge from nowhere, helpless.
Goal.
Not just Loria, even after the ball hit the back of the net, many were still processing what had happened. Khubutia and Kashia wore identical expressions of bewilderment. They'd seen Julien fake left, then somehow the ball had slipped between them into the goal.
Loria's diving attempt looked more like a belated formality.
"How did that go in?!" The question reverberated through every mind in the stadium.
Only when the giant screen replayed the sequence in slow motion did the full picture emerge. The camera captured Julien's supporting foot planting during what appeared to be a turn, while his shooting leg executed an incredibly rapid, compact strike—exploiting the exact instant the defenders' weight shifted. He'd created a temporal advantage, hitting the ball while they were still reacting to the feint.
The Boris Paichadze Dinamo Arena fell into an eerie paralysis.
Tens of thousands of Georgian fans had their expressions frozen mid-celebration with mouths wide open, flags suspended in mid-wave, eyes filled with stunned disbelief.
In stark contrast, the small away section erupted.
The traveling French supporters detonated with joy, their blue mass surging and roaring, releasing every ounce of pent-up emotion.
"JULIEN! JULIEN!!"
The moment the ball crossed the line, Julien turned toward the corner flag, arms spreading wide as he faced the away section with a smile.
Another goal.
His fifteenth in official competition for the national team.
Giroud reached him first, grabbing him in a headlock and roaring in his ear. "Julien! You beautiful bastard! How did you even do that?! Unbelievable!"
Ribéry sprinted over, laughing as he pounded Julien's back: "Brilliant! Kid! Keep tearing them apart!"
The rest of the team piled on, surrounding him in a mass of embraces and backslaps, faces burning with excitement and admiration. Even Lloris, back in his own penalty area, pumped his fist up.
Standing in the eye of that storm, Julien became the undisputed focal point, raising his fist toward the away supporters.
The roar intensified.
Watching the broadcast feed of Julien in his moment of triumph, the Georgian commentator fell silent for two seconds before speaking with reluctant honesty: "0-1. We've conceded. But I must be frank—this wasn't a tactical breakdown. It wasn't poor positioning. It wasn't even bad luck.
What did we just witness? Julien De Rocca, this eighteen-year-old, France's youngest-ever captain, faced with our defensive trap, sold a feint to turn left that completely deceived our center-back. And in that instant, truly just an instant—while his body was still mid-rotation, he struck the ball with his right instep in an utterly disguised shooting motion.
The entire shot was hidden inside the feint. The backlift was so negligible it was nearly invisible. This is pure talent. This is the naked reality of the gap between us and world-class players. While our defenders are still thinking about positioning and blocking angles, players of this caliber have already made the killing decision in a fraction of a second.
What can we say about a goal like that? Our players gave everything they had. But sometimes, football confronts you with a chasm that effort alone cannot bridge. Tonight, De Rocca has painfully demonstrated what it means to be a true genius."
In the ball boy area along the touchline, twelve-year-old Khvicha Kvaratskhelia's eyes were wide as saucers, utterly captivated by that blue number 10.
When Julien had danced past defenders with movements that seemed almost choreographed, the boy had unconsciously held his breath. When the ball somehow eased through the defensive wall as if enchanted, a surge of excitement exploded in his small chest.
Tactical discipline, defensive positioning—in that moment, everything else evaporated.
To twelve-year-old Khvicha, what Julien had just done was the coolest, most captivating thing in the world.
"Incredible," he murmured, his hands unconsciously mimicking Julien's dribbling motion, tracing patterns in the air. "So that's how you can play football."
He thought of his youth coaches constantly emphasizing simple passes and sensible decision-making. But Julien's flamboyant style had struck him like lightning. This kind of football didn't just win, it won with style.
In that moment, Kvaratskhelia's understanding of the sport was deeply rewritten.
Wasn't the highest form of technique the ability to make the impossible look effortless? To dance on a cliff's edge and still appear in complete control?
He stared at the number 10 who seemed to radiate light on the pitch, a single burning thought consuming him: I want to play like that. I want to be that cool.
France's celebration didn't last long. The match quickly resumed.
The goal was simultaneously broadcast across France, in living rooms, bars, and public squares. The entire nation ignited.
In a Paris bar near the city center, patrons who'd been holding their breath suddenly erupted in deafening cheers. Golden beer flew through the air as strangers embraced, chanting "Julien! Julien!" in unison.
In Marseille's Old Port, fans gathered beneath a massive screen waved tricolor flags frantically, car horns blaring in harmony with their roars.
In an ordinary Lyon household, a father swept up his young son, pointing at the television screen: "Look! That's our captain!"
But in Corsica, in Bastia, the reaction burned hottest of all.
At the Café du Soleil Couchant, the instant the ball hit the net, the establishment exploded with primal roars of joy.
"That goal was filthy!"
"His technique is unreal. Liverpool got an absolute steal for eighty million!"
"When we need someone to unlock a game, just give it to Julien. Simple as that."
Martin pounded the table, tears were brimming in his eyes as he pointed at the screen where teammates mobbed the blue number 10: "I've been saying it for years! This kid was born for this!"
The bar dissolved into a wave of nostalgia—his debut at Stade Armand Cesari, that goal against Paris Saint-Germain, leading Bastia to the trophy. The celebration transformed into something deeper than simple football fandom: the pride of a community watching one of their own conquer the world.
To them, Julien wasn't just France's hero. He would always be the kid from Corsica who'd given them their miracle.
Watching him shine on the biggest stages filled them with a pride more intense than any other French fans could feel.
Bertrand suddenly began singing: "Your shadow is Bastia's hurricane! Your shots burn the enemy's net..."
As the familiar melody rose, others joined in. Soon the entire bar was belting out the chant they'd written for Julien, voices were soaring as if their song could cross the Mediterranean and reach distant Tbilisi.
In that moment, from north to south, all of France boiled over for this goal, for their captain.
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