Meanwhile, in Manchester, England.
At the AON Training Complex, commonly known as Carrington, David Moyes sat in his office with his coaching staff, faces grave as they watched France's qualifier.
They weren't interested in France or Georgia's results. Their focus was: Julien De Rocca.
After the international break, Manchester United's third Premier League fixture would take them to Merseyside for the away derby against Liverpool. The double reds.
Last season, United were champions while Liverpool finished seventh. But this season, despite minimal squad changes, Liverpool had been frighteningly dominant. The difference was only Julien's arrival.
So Moyes understood well: to beat Liverpool, he needed a plan to neutralize Julien.
So far, from Ligue 1 to the Europa League, no team had successfully contained him. Even Liverpool's first two Premier League opponents had failed. Stoke City had tried something that showed promise, but ultimately couldn't stop him.
And Moyes couldn't employ Stoke's tactics anyway. United's fans, accustomed to success and silverware, claiming over half of all Premier League titles didn't just demand victories. They demanded beautiful victories.
"His close control is absurd. The confidence to take on two defenders in that space..." one assistant muttered as the screen showed Julien driving at Georgia's backline before releasing a pass.
Moyes nodded grimly. "That's his gift. And our problem."
"This run inside," Moyes interrupted, voice low, finger jabbing at the screen. "See that? Right when Giroud drags their defense the other direction, he doesn't just dribble blindly, every touch has purpose."
"Fletcher, if it were you, how would you track that run?" Moyes asked his defensive analyst without turning around.
"That's nearly impossible," Fletcher admitted, shaking his head. "His initial burst is too explosive. And watch that shoulder feint before the pass—if our fullback commits to the tackle, he's done for. You'd need the midfielder's cover to arrive instantly, and even then—"
"And covering him leaves someone else open," Moyes finished, rubbing his temples. "Liverpool aren't the national team. They've got Sturridge, Coutinho up top. Which one can you afford to ignore?"
Another assistant pulled up footage he'd just captured of Julien receiving the ball in the half-space outside the box. "David, this is the real nightmare. He's not just dangerous wide. He loves drifting into this zone to receive. From here, he can shoot directly, slip through balls, or like this—"
On screen, Julien feinted elegantly and spun away from his marker.
"That's what kills you," Moyes said, frustration was creeping into his voice. "He makes defenders guess wrong every time. Press him tight, he uses his agility to spin past you. Give him space, and he's got time to pick a pass or take the next touch. Whether he cuts inside or goes to the byline, it's a problem."
He rewound to Julien's goal. "That goal, did Georgia's center-backs make a mistake? Strictly speaking, no. They held their positions. They tracked his movement. But De Rocca still found the only passing lane available in that moment, and finished with perfect technique. That's not something tactics alone can solve. That's pure talent overwhelming you."
Silence settled over the office as they confronted the scale of the challenge. Facing a player who seemed to have no weaknesses created a palpable sense of helplessness.
"Carrick's physicality might disrupt him," one assistant suggested. "Have Carrick man-mark him. Stick to him like glue."
Moyes considered it. "It's a thought. De Rocca's physical duels are his relative weakness. But if Carrick follows him out wide, our midfield gets exposed. And can Carrick actually stay with him?"
He paused, exhaling heavily. "More importantly, United fans won't accept pure defensive tactics. They want to see us dominate Liverpool, not passively absorb pressure. Even away."
Moyes shook his head. "So, here's our dilemma, gentlemen. We can't park the bus like Stoke—that's beneath United's identity. But we have to contain the hottest attacking talent in world football."
He grabbed a marker and moved to the whiteboard, beginning to sketch.
"We need a smarter approach. Maybe we don't man-mark him. Maybe we deny him the ball instead: compress the space he can receive in, cut off his connections with teammates. Especially his links with Gerrard and Henderson. We need to pressure their midfield build-up..."
His voice trailed off as he sank into concentration. How to suppress Julien while maintaining United's attacking principles, this puzzle would define the outcome of his first major test as United manager.
Outside the windows, Manchester's night deepened. In the office, only the sound of the commentator and occasional scratching of notes broke the silence as time crawled forward.
Just as Moyes began forming the outline of a strategy, the television commentator's voice suddenly spiked, shattering the silence.
"Ribéry shoots! GOAL!! France leads 2-0 away to Georgia! Just as we enter the 40th minute, Georgia concedes again!
"And once more, it's Julien on the right wing who attracted nearly five defenders! Georgia's entire defensive shape collapsed toward him! But instead of forcing the issue, he delivered a laser of a long ball to find Ribéry completely unmarked on the far side—"
Moyes and his staff instinctively snapped their attention to the replay on screen. The footage clearly showed that when Julien possessed the ball on the right, nearly half of Georgia's defensive structure tilted toward him, leaving Ribéry in acres of space on the opposite flank.
"Christ," an assistant muttered, voice hollow. "He's not just scoring himself. He's destroying matches like this too."
Moyes' frown deepened. "That's what makes him truly terrifying. Everything we discussed was about stopping his individual attacking. But he's also got that pass. He can use his personal threat to drag two, three, four, five defenders toward him, then create absolute freedom for teammates."
The office fell into heavy silence.
This night at Carrington would be long and burdensome.
Boris Paichadze Dinamo Arena.
Georgian fans sat with resignation. They'd known the gap against elite opposition would be significant, but Julien had shown them an unbridgeable chasm.
Someone in the stands sighed. "We're so jealous of France. Having a player like that... when will we ever have our own De Rocca?"
The sentiment echoed through much of the Georgian support. Just reaching the European Championship required luck and maximum effort. The World Cup felt like a fantasy.
Georgia had nothing left for attack. Under France's relentless pressure, they could only defend passively. Ketsbaia constantly shouted for his players to increase defensive intensity and physicality. At minimum, they couldn't concede again before halftime.
Then they could adjust for the second period.
However, in the 46th minute, three minutes of added time, Julien drove from the right wing again, throwing Georgia's penalty area into chaos. Ketsbaia's heart leaped into his throat. Julien had been a nightmare all half.
Georgian defenders scrambled back, swarming toward him. Seeing no opening, Julien checked back to the overlapping Sagna, who quickly switched play.
Soon the ball reached Ribéry on the left. His task was identical to Julien's: receive and drive infield.
Ribéry cut inside aggressively, created a shooting angle, and unleashed another powerful strike. But this time, the ball didn't fly toward goal—it cannoned into the raised arm of covering right-back Lobzhanidze.
The dull thwack echoed distinctly.
The ball ricocheted away.
"HANDBALL!!" Ribéry immediately thrust both arms up, screaming at the referee. French attackers joined, pointing and shouting.
The referee's whistle hesitated briefly before piercing the air decisively. His right arm pointed firmly at the penalty spot.
Lobzhanidze rushed toward the official, face filled with desperation and protest, insisting his arm had been in a natural position, tight to his body—"passive contact." Conceding a penalty in stoppage time was unbearable.
But the referee backtracked while shaking his head firmly, gesturing to his upper arm to indicate Lobzhanidze's hand had clearly moved out, expanding his defensive profile. Georgian captain Kankava also ran over to argue, but the decision stood.
Julien didn't participate in the protests. He quietly collected the ball and walked calmly toward the penalty spot.
The entire stadium erupted in boos and jeers, Georgian fans were expressing their anguish and fury however they could. Ketsbaia roared at the fourth official: "That's not a penalty! Absolutely not!"
But he knew, deep down, that tonight's outcome was already sealed.
French supporters, meanwhile, began to tense with anticipation. Just when they'd thought the half was ending, another chance to extend the lead had emerged.
Julien placed the ball carefully on the spot. Loria bounced on his line, clapping his gloves, trying to project pressure onto the penalty taker.
The French broadcast commentator noted that Julien had never missed a penalty in his professional career.
Whistle!
The referee signaled.
Julien drew a deep breath. Then began his approach.
His penalty technique was simple and direct—no intricate stutter-steps, no sudden pauses or tricks. Just a direct run-up and an absolute hammer into the corner. If the keeper guessed right and made the save, fair play to him.
BANG!
Julien's right foot struck through the ball. It rocketed toward the top right corner with precise angle, devastating power.
Loria guessed correctly but stood no chance. He couldn't reach the upper ninety.
Swish.
The ball tore into the net, rippling the mesh violently.
0-3.
Julien with a brace.
After scoring, Julien didn't sprint wildly. He simply jogged toward the small pocket of French support, planting his feet and spreading his arms in his signature celebration.
"JULIEN! JULIEN!!"
The away section had descended into absolute mayhem. They screamed his name themselves hoarse, countless arms were mirroring his pose, as if trying to reach through the barrier and embrace their hero. Smiles and tears mixed freely on every face, pride and joy was overflowing.
Hearing their roar, Julien stood motionless with arms outstretched, eyes briefly closing as he drew in a deep breath as if inhaling this trembling adoration into his lungs, converting it to fuel.
A heartbeat later, teammates swarmed him from behind. Giroud grabbed him in a chokehold, shouting in his ear. Ribéry laughed as he pounded his back. More players piled on, surrounding him in embraces and backslaps, faces glowing with excitement and admiration.
At the center of that storm, Julien was the absolute focal point, raising his fist toward the away end once more.
The noise level peaked.
A curious atmosphere settled over Boris Paichadze Dinamo Arena. Many Georgian fans still wore anger and disappointment on their faces, but another emotion had begun creeping into their eyes, something complex and conflicted.
An elderly fan in a traditional Georgian wool cap shook his head, unconsciously clapping a few times before awkwardly lowering his hands as if catching himself in betrayal. But his gaze never left the young Frenchman in the number 10 shirt.
He muttered, "Too strong. Too strong, there's nothing we can do, we just can't stop him."
This contradiction permeated the stadium. They were heartbroken by their team's crushing defeat, yet couldn't help but feel conquered by the talent and performance Julien displayed. They hated that he'd destroyed their national team's hopes, but had to admit that witnessing genius like this was, in itself, a privilege.
On the touchline, Deschamps pumped his fist triumphantly as the penalty found the net.
Job done.
After three summer friendlies without a goal, he'd faced heavy criticism. People said without Julien, he couldn't win matches. And honestly? They were right.
But he didn't care. Who said giving the ball to your best player wasn't a tactic?
Nearby, Ketsbaia shook his head helplessly, pinching the bridge of his nose. Three goals down at halftime, how were they supposed to respond?
WHISTLE!
When the halftime whistle sounded, Ketsbaia didn't hesitate, striding directly toward the tunnel.
On the pitch, players from both sides wore vastly different expressions. Fans and commentators were equally split.
The Georgian commentator expressed regret at the scoreline. Meanwhile, his French counterpart smiled: "This half belonged entirely to Julien's personal showcase. Two goals, one assist, directly involved in all three scores! This is what he brings us: the decisive difference.
I must say without exaggeration that France with Julien and France without him are two completely different teams in attack. Just look at this match! When opponents park the bus, he still tears through with individual brilliance. When they overload his side, he finds teammates with his vision and precision. He makes our attack unpredictable.
And in those three summer friendlies without him? Zero goals across three matches. It made you wonder if something was fundamentally broken with this French team. That only highlights Julien's indispensability.
What's most incredible is that he's only eighteen years old. An eighteen-year-old dominating in this high-pressure away environment, making it look effortless. That's not just talent, it's an innate king's mentality. Watching him play, you forget his age. The composure and maturity he displays completely belie his years.
This is the player we've been waiting for since Platini, since Zidane! This is the son of France! He came through our Clairefontaine academy. He carries our footballing dreams! In him, we see Zidane's elegance, Henry's incisiveness, and something new—a modern, complete footballer who can do everything.
He is this team's attacking soul. I'll say this: having him is French football's fortune. But I also hope France produces more than just one Julien, because depending on him alone would be another kind of misfortune."
French Dressing Room.
Deschamps stood before the tactical board, satisfaction was evident on his face. The atmosphere was relaxed, players were rehydrating and quietly discussing first-half combinations.
"Well done, lads!" Deschamps' voice garnered attention. "We completely controlled the tempo that half. The attack was clinical, especially up front. That's exactly what we've been working on."
He looked specifically at Julien, nodding approvingly. "Julien, your performance was phenomenal. You read the match perfectly."
His gaze swept across Ribéry, Giroud, and others. "Frank's movement, Olivier's hold-up play were crucial contributions across the board."
He moved to the tactical board to outline second-half adjustments. "We'll make some changes after the break. Primary objective: control the match and keep a clean sheet. We'll sit slightly deeper, stay compact, let them come forward. Remember—no unnecessary risks. I want a professional victory, not an open shootout. Don't give them any momentum to build on. No complacency! Understood?"
"Yes, coach!"
After finishing his tactical instructions, Deschamps walked over to Julien, who was tying his boots. He placed a hand on his shoulder, speaking in a calm tone: "Julien, I'm planning to substitute you in the second half. Partly because we've got the match under control, but also to give Paul, N'Golo, and Raphaël some minutes to find their rhythm."
Julien looked up, face showing no displeasure. He nodded simply. "I understand, coach. No problem."
He genuinely didn't mind. Playing the full ninety had never been how he measured his value.
Deschamps smiled and nodded, turning to continue his preparations. He told Kanté to start warming up—he'd bring him on at the restart to reinforce midfield control, then look to swap Gilavogui for Pogba later.
Gilavogui simply wasn't ready for this level. The Saint-Étienne academy product had enjoyed his best season last year, earning a ten-million-euro move to Atlético Madrid this summer. Clearly Simeone rated him.
But this half, against even Georgia's modest opposition, Gilavogui had looked ordinary. Deschamps shook his head. Basically writing him off.
He was constantly evaluating new players, searching for individuals who could form the core of a championship-caliber squad. Unfortunately, French talent remained frustratingly thin.
Meanwhile, Julien processed what had just happened. The fact that Deschamps, this battle-hardened, iron-fisted tactician had personally walked over to explain a routine tactical substitution spoke volumes.
The subtle shift marked something noteworthy. When Julien's consistent brilliance proved he was the team's genuine core, even a French legend like Deschamps had to respect and consider his feelings. This influence didn't need to be voiced or demanded. It had silently woven itself into every tactical consideration.
This was superstar status, even in silence, your presence alone became the coaching staff's primary consideration.
When both teams returned after halftime, home supporters were surprised to see Julien on the bench. Some wondered if he'd picked up an injury that required protection. Others figured Deschamps simply viewed the result as secure and was rotating.
Once play resumed, France's attack maintained possession but clearly lacked the lethal edge Julien provided. The flanks still created crossing opportunities, Giroud won several headers, but the score remained unchanged.
The French commentator's tone shifted from first-half passion to something tinged with regret: "We can see that with Julien off the pitch; our attack still dominates possession and creates chances. But we're missing that individual quality in the final third that breaks deadlocks.
Giroud's hold-up play remains excellent, Ribéry's dribbling still dangerous but that final, decisive touch is just slightly off. I believe this again demonstrates Julien's importance to this French team. We cannot lose our captain.
On the other hand, Kanté's introduction has massively strengthened our defensive solidity in midfield. His coverage and interceptions make it nearly impossible for Georgia to organize anything through the center. Their passes are cut off repeatedly..."
The second half unfolded in a somewhat monotonous rhythm. France defended competently but their attack had reverted to the summer friendlies' issue: lack of cutting edge.
Finally, when the final whistle blew, the match was over.
3-0.
France continued to lead World Cup Qualifying Group I!
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