The final whistle sliced through the Tbilisi night.
3-0.
After the celebrations subsided, the French players didn't immediately retreat to the dressing room. Instead, they formed a line, shoulder to shoulder, and walked as one toward the away section, that patch of dazzling blue in a sea of Georgian red.
Over a thousand French supporters had made the long journey east, transforming their corner of the stadium into a cauldron of joy. As the players approached, the decibel level erupted, thunderous applause and roars of adulation poured down from the stands.
The players applauded back, grinning widely as the noise rolled over them.
But all the focus, all the raw passion, ultimately converged on one figure: the young man wearing number 10.
"JULIE-EN! JULIE-EN! JULIE-EN!"
The chant reverberated through the Tbilisi night sky. Louder than any other name. More continuous. Bursting with pride and devotion.
"Thank you, Julien! You're our pride!"
"Julien—son of France!"
"Julien, take us to Brazil and win that damn trophy!"
His teammates pushed him forward with encouraging shoves and laughter. When Julien stepped out alone toward the barrier, the atmosphere reached fever pitch.
He looked up at those faces, contorted with joy, hoarse from screaming his name and his expression softened into something warm and genuine.
"Thank you!" he called out, voice nearly lost in the noise.
He clapped hard, then pressed his palm against his chest and bowed deeply toward them.
The gesture unleashed another torrent of screams.
Someone hurled a French tricolor down from the stands. Julien caught it cleanly, draped it across his shoulders, and the roar that followed felt like it might shake the stadium's foundations.
Words were meaningless in that moment.
Every chant, every ecstatic face, every outstretched hand reaching desperately toward him—all of it conveyed the same message: absolute trust, heartfelt worship, and an overwhelming sense of national pride inspired by him alone.
For these traveling supporters, Julien wasn't just a guarantee of goals. He was a symbol, a living embodiment of their belief that French football's glorious future was within reach.
This was their way of expressing the highest admiration for their young leader.
The tribute continued for several minutes. When the players finally turned and waved farewell, heading toward the tunnel, the songs from the stands remained deafening, like anthems for a hero.
Julien lingered at the back, turning one last time to face that sea of blue. He raised his arm high and waved with emotion.
In the shadows of the tunnel entrance, young ball boy Khvicha Kvaratskhelia absorbed every second of the scene unfolding before him.
He watched those delirious French fans. Saw the near-worshipful light in their eyes. Watched Julien acknowledge them with that calm, composed wave amid the noise of adulation.
A burning desire surged through his chest: Someday, I'll make Georgian fans chant my name like that.
The thought spread through him like wildfire. His fists clenched instinctively at his sides.
His gaze locked onto the blue number 10, and didn't waver.
As Julien moved step by step toward the tunnel, Kvaratskhelia's heart hammered against his ribs, trying to burst free.
His mind raced frantically: How do I talk to him again? What do I say? What tone should I use?
Julien chatted casually with his teammates as they walked, clearly ready to head back to the dressing room.
Then, as if sensing the intensity of that stare, he glanced back almost instinctively and his eyes landed on the slightly undersized Georgian boy he'd briefly encountered before the match.
The raw mixture of nervousness, admiration, and desperate longing in the boy's expression made Julien pause mid-step.
He smiled at Kvaratskhelia and deliberately changed course, walking directly toward him.
Kvaratskhelia felt like his lungs had stopped working.
His idol approached, closer and closer, until that tall body loomed over him, bringing with it the scent of sweat and freshly cut grass.
Julien crouched down to eye level, his voice was gentle in English: "Hey, kid. How'd the job go tonight?"
Kvaratskhelia's throat seized up. He could only nod vigorously, his face was flushing crimson.
Every carefully rehearsed phrase vanished from his mind.
The simple fact that Julien was speaking to him short-circuited his brain entirely.
Julien chuckled at the boy's reaction.
Without hesitation, he straightened up, grabbed the hem of his jersey, and pulled it smoothly over his head in one gesture.
He held out the blue number 10 France shirt—still warm from his body, damp with sweat and extended it toward Kvaratskhelia.
"Here. This is for you."
His tone was straightforward, but kind.
Kvaratskhelia couldn't believe what he was seeing.
Trembling, he reached out with both hands as if receiving a sacred relic, carefully embracing the jersey. The cloth still held residual heat. The reality of it made him feel dizzy with happiness.
Then he remembered what his friends had asked him to get.
"C-can you... sign it?" Kvaratskhelia stammered in heavily accented English, his courage was nearly failing him as he fumbled to find a pen.
Julien smiled and signaled to a nearby staff member. Moments later, a marker was handed over.
He took it and, with smooth, practiced strokes, signed his name below the number on the back: Julien De Rocca.
But instead of immediately returning the marker, he looked the boy directly in the eyes and added another line beneath the signature:
"Keep playing. Maybe we'll meet on the pitch someday."
When Kvaratskhelia read those words, it was like a thunderclap detonating in his chest.
He'd completely forgotten about getting signatures for his friends.
His head snapped up, eyes wide staring at Julien.
There was no dismissiveness in his idol's gaze, only genuine encouragement and something like belief.
"I will! I swear I will!" Kvaratskhelia shouted with every ounce of strength he possessed. Tears spilled down his cheeks, feeling hot and coming unstoppable.
Julien smiled, gave his shoulder a warm pat, then turned to rejoin his waiting teammates.
But after a few steps, he stopped.
He glanced back at the skinny Georgian boy once more.
"Hey—I didn't catch your name."
Kvaratskhelia froze for a heartbeat.
Then instinct took over. "Khvicha! Khvicha Kvaratskhelia!"
"Khvicha Kvaratskhelia?"
Julien repeated the somewhat tongue-twisting name carefully, a barely noticeable pause was evident in his delivery.
His gaze lingered on the boy's face again, and he smiled faintly. Without further comment, he repeated: "I'll remember your name. Keep playing. Maybe we'll meet on the pitch someday."
Hearing Julien say it again, Kvaratskhelia nodded fiercely.
He stood rooted to the spot, clutching that precious jersey against his chest as tears dripped onto the fabric.
He stared at the space where Julien had disappeared, and in his heart, the mountain named "idol" grew even more high.
Tonight, he hadn't just received a match-worn shirt and an autograph.
He'd been given something far more valuable: a spark—a flame called dream.
The same boy who, back in his hometown of Tsalenjikha, would carefully wrap early-ripening apples around the sharp iron decorations on a fence to protect his beloved football from being punctured, that boy now held this blue jersey as if holding his entire future.
As Julien walked toward the dressing room, chatting easily with his teammates, part of his mind drifted back to the ball boy.
If it's not just a coincidence of names... then fate really does work in mysterious ways.
Hmm.
"Boundless fallen leaves rustle down"... Kvaratskhelia.
France Dressing Room
Julien was the last to enter the dressing room.
The moment he stepped through the door, Giroud wrapped him in a boisterous bear hug.
"Julien! That penalty was insane!" Giroud roared in his characteristically loud voice. "But seriously, you can't keep doing that to me—I've got a bad heart! Every single one you take is right into the corner. I thought you were going to sky it!"
Julien laughed. "Don't worry. You just need to draw more penalties in the box. Once I take a few more, you'll get used to it."
The room erupted in laughter.
Julien gave Giroud an approving thumbs-up. "That flick-on header in the first half was brilliant, by the way. But, uh..." He grinned mischievously.
Giroud immediately knew what was coming. "Hey! Don't bring up the one I skied!"
He clutched his head in mock despair, drawing another round of laughter from his teammates.
From the corner, Ribery icing his knee with a cold pack called out with a grin: "Not bad today, kid. But next time I make a run, get me the ball a split second earlier. Any slower and I'm offside."
He held his thumb and forefinger a centimeter apart to illustrate.
"Hear that, Julien? Scarface is giving you a lecture!" Valbuena teased, shirtless and flexing in front of the mirror as he fixed his hair.
N'Golo Kanté sat quietly in his spot, already fully dressed, wearing his trademark shy smile. When Julien looked his way, Kanté silently raised a thumbs-up.
"Julien, you had those Georgian defenders spinning in circles today," Matuidi said while tying his boots. "I saw their faces when they walked off, they looked traumatized."
Varane chimed in with his usual defensive caution: "True. Your changes of pace left them completely lost. But Julien, they got way more aggressive in the second half. Good thing you were subbed off. Next time you're in that situation, release the ball earlier. Protecting yourself is the priority."
Julien nodded. "Yeah, I've got it under control."
The dressing room buzzed with noise, laughter, banter, the sounds of athletes unwinding after a job well done.
In the corner, veteran captain Patrice Evra sat on the bench carefully removing his shin guards. He observed the youthful energy around him in silence, a faint smile was on his mouth, though his eyes held a complicated mixture of emotions.
How different this is from before.
Once upon a time, the French dressing room had been a very different place. Star-studded, yes but fractured. Cliques. Egos. The 2010 South Africa World Cup implosion had become a global laughingstock.
Back then, the blue jersey seemed weighed down by personal ambitions and toxic politics, it was suffocating, heavy, unbearable.
But now...
Evra's gaze drifted toward Julien, who was surrounded by laughing teammates.
This 18-year-old kid had somehow become the genuine core holding this squad together.
There was no arrogance about him. Giroud could ruffle his hair. Pogba could joke around with him freely. Even Ribery, a veteran of countless battles, offered advice with patience and respect. The younger players treated him like a brother.
Maybe this is what he always talks about—'brotherhood football,' Evra thought.
No authoritarian hierarchy. No power plays. Just natural leadership born from talent and character, creating a gravitational pull that made everyone willing to fight for each other.
This kind of team had real strength. Real potential.
As someone who'd lived through the darkest days, Evra understood the value of this unity better than anyone.
He cleared his throat and raised his voice with mock seriousness, calling across the room: "Hey, Julien! Next weekend when you're back in England, go easy on us at Anfield, yeah? These old bones can't handle you charging at me all match."
The Double Derby.
If Moyes started him, Evra would be directly matched up against Julien.
The dressing room exploded with laughter.
Giroud slapped his thigh, hooting: "Patrice! That's the Double Derby! We'll all be watching from Arsenal! You'd better hold strong!"
Pogba joined the pile-on gleefully: "Patrice, you want me to teach you some tricks for defending Julien? Though honestly, probably won't help! Haha!"
Ribery shook his head knowingly, smirking. "Julien, just don't embarrass our captain too badly."
Julien laughed, raising his hands defensively. "Don't worry, Patrice. I'll, uh... try to leave you with some dignity."
It was obviously a joke.
But it sparked another wave of laughter.
Evra watched the playful ribbing, the easy companionship, and shook his head with a grin. He said nothing more.
Club was club.
National team was national team.
But in this moment, in this dressing room, they shared only one identity—brothers fighting for France.
And having Julien as their core? That was this team's greatest fortune.
Just then, their head coach Didier Deschamps pushed through the door and clapped his hands sharply.
"Alright, lads, enough club banter. Right now, we're the French national team. Pack your things. After the press conference, we're heading straight to the airport. Enjoy the win, but don't forget we've got another match in a few days."
A chorus of "Yes, boss!" echoed through the room, though the atmosphere remained buoyant.
Evra stood, taking one last look at the scene of unified joy.
Maybe my final dance with the national team can still have some brilliance left in it.
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