Emperor of Football: Julien De Rocca

The commotion stirred up by the Bastia fans drew curious glances from fans all around them.

People stopped to take photos.

Some even slipped into the Bastia group—the French national kit was blue too, after all, and at a passing glance the difference wasn't obvious.

As time wore on, the sun sank slowly toward the horizon. The stadium lights flickered on, their brilliant glow was flooding the night sky and illuminating the dense crowd of supporters pressing in from every side.

The atmosphere around the Stade de France grew electric.

It reached its first peak of the evening when the team buses arrived.

Especially when the French Team bus came rolling in.

Fans who had been scattered across the forecourt surged together, their cheers were swelling into a roar.

Among them, the Bastia supporters stood out like no one else.

Dressed in Julien's old number 10 and number 29 Bastia shirts, waving that blue banner printed with the silhouette of the treble-winning side, they formed up behind Modoso and were the first to find their voices—chanting Julien's name in unison:

"Julien! Julien! Julien!"

As they chanted, a familiar melody took shape. The Bastia fans stood shoulder to shoulder and broke into song—the familiar song that had rung out again and again from the terraces of the Armand-Cesari:

"Beneath the stars of Furiani,

Armand-Cesari calls your name!

Julien, son of the mountains,

You came, you conquered, you brought us fame!

Ohhh Julien, hear the Turchini sing,

Three crowns won beneath these skies!

The treble was written long before you,

In Furiani where legends rise!"

The melody was tender, carrying the spirit of Corsica, freighted with the youth they had shared with him. It spoke of their devotion to Julien, and of their longing for that treble-winning Bastia side.

The singing swelled. More and more supporters were drawn in by the warmth of it—even fans from other clubs found themselves humming softly along.

The French team bus came to a stop.

The doors opened and players walked out one by one.

The moment Julien appeared in the doorway, dressed in the blue France training kit, the Bastia supporters' chants and singing erupted beyond sound.

Julien paused. His gaze swept through the crowd and found them immediately—that cluster of people in old shirts, waving their blue flag.

He didn't head straight for the players' tunnel.

Instead, he raised his hand and gave a long wave in their direction.

Then he dipped forward in a slow, respectful bow.

At that, the Bastia supporters' singing deepened with feeling. More than a few had reddened eyes. They called out louder than before.

They loved Julien. They missed the Julien who had seemed capable of anything at the Armand-Cesari.

Kanté, standing beside him, watched the whole scene and broke into a wide, naïve grin.

Kanté didn't know what to say. So, he just smiled.

After a brief exchange, the players made their way toward the tunnel. Julien turned once more, and gave another wave to the Bastia supporters then walked back with the rest.

Inside the dressing room, Deschamps made out small talks. "Clear your heads. Focus on the game. Execute what we've worked on in training, enjoy this friendly, and show them what you're made of. Don't let anyone in that stadium down tonight."

The players nodded.

Soon the two squads were walking out, heading to the pitch for the pre-match warm-up.

The Stade de France was all but full. Tier upon tier of supporters blurred into a sea of blue; the cheers and applause detonated through the stadium and into the night.

Every French fan in the ground watched the players with burning eyes—eyes full of expectation. Expectation that this young French side would bring long-awaited glory back to French football three months from now, at the World Cup.

When the warm-up was done, the players returned to the dressing room for final preparations.

There were no unnecessary noise. Players changed shirts, strapped on their gear, and settled into themselves.

Deschamps spoke once more. "Remember the structure from training. Stay solid at the back, move the ball in attack, keep your heads clear, and play our game."

All players nodded in response.

This was not simply a friendly. It was about gelling and finding their rhythm as a unit.

After a short time, both squads were moving through the tunnel.

Meanwhile, the commentators were already at work.

"There are a few minutes for kick-off—let's take a look at the starting line-ups.

France, with Deschamps sticking to his familiar 4-3-3. In goal, Lloris. The back four, right to left: Debuchy, Varane, Mangala, Evra. The midfield three: Pogba, Cabaye, Matuidi. And up front, the attacking trio of Giroud, Julien, and Ribéry…"

He moved on to the Dutch side. "Van Gaal also lines up in a 4-3-3. Cillessen in goal. The back four: Van der Wiel, Vlaar, Indi, Blind. Midfield: Strootman, Clasie, Sneijder. Up front: Van Persie, Boetius, Promes."

"Tonight's match is a friendly," the commentator continued, "but it matters enormously to both sides as it is also a critical test run before the World Cup. You'll all remember that in World Cup qualifying, France beat Spain and topped the group ahead of them.

That alone tells you how much this team has grown under Deschamps with veterans like Evra providing the backbone, young talents like De Rocca and Paul Pogba leading the charge. We're very keen to see how far Deschamps can take them from here…"

The moment he finished, the stadium lights blazed brighter and the music gushed.

The players took the field.

With Julien at their head, the France players emerged from the tunnel. The instant he appeared in blue shirt, Stade de France—the stadium detonated.

"Allez les Bleus!"

"Julien!!"

Through the noise, the pre-match formalities proceeded. As captain, Julien stood beside Van Persie at the centre circle, shook hands with the referee, and waited for the coin toss. He called it and chose possession.

The formalities were over. Both sides took their positions.

Tweet!!

The referee's whistle split the air. The match started.

France had the ball and from the first touch, they showed exactly what they'd come to do. They showed no signs of feeling-out, no caution and started a direct instant press, the players began pushing high and compressing Netherlands into their own half.

It was a departure from Deschamps' usual counter-attacking instincts, but this was by design—push hard at the start, seize the early initiative.

Van Gaal had clearly seen it coming. His players dropped quickly, drew the defensive line deep, and packed the shape into a solid block in their own half.

The team that prided itself on attacking football was now sitting and defending, looking for the counter.

Something felt upturned about the whole scene.

By the third minute, France had their first genuine threat.

Julien dropped deep into midfield to receive, then sent a diagonal ball over the top to Ribéry making the run down the left. Ribéry used his pace to burn past Van der Wiel and drove into the left channel of the box.

Vlaar came across to close him down.

Ribéry didn't force the shot. He cut the ball back across the face of goal instead. Giroud arrived at pace and strained to get a toe on it but it slid just past the far post.

Netherlands's defence grew more cautious. Their penalty area was now crowded with bodies; France kept applying the pressure—probing down the flanks, threading balls through the middle.

Pogba was everywhere in the midfield, surging forward to support the attack, even having a go from range. Cabaye and Matuidi shuttled across the middle as the connective tissue binding the team together.

The relentless attacking carried the crowd with it. The noise on the terraces climbed with every wave of pressure.

In the eleventh minute, France came again.

Ribéry designed to go down the left, stopped, and played it back to Evra pushing up in support. Evra carried it forward and fed it inside to the midfield.

Cabaye took it first-time and sent a long-range strike aimed at the corner.

Cillessen reacted fast and palmed it away for a corner.

The ball was swung in. Giroud rose high to contest but Indi got there first, and headed it clear. The ball fell to Pogba, who struck it again from distance, this time it sailed just over the bar.

It was so close.

France's pressure was relentless.

Netherlands, meanwhile, had barely threatened the goalpost.

The contrast was clear enough to puzzle the commentator: "Netherlands look off tonight, don't they? They look a bit weak. Could Van Gaal be holding something back—not wanting to show his hand before the World Cup?"

Nobody on the pitch was in a position to answer.

Then came a small incident.

In one defensive challenge, Strootman pulled up sharply and got a tweak in his calf. The physio came on, did what he could, and Strootman pushed through it. But on the touchline, Van Gaal's forehead stayed crumpled, his hands were moving to adjust his players' defensive positions, shoring up any gaps before they could open.

The clock reached the thirteenth minute.

Julien held the ball in the centre of the pitch. Strootman and Clasie came to close him down together, looking to squeeze him out.

With two men bearing down on him, Julien was slow. He made a small feint, then a neat lay-off to Cabaye arriving beside him. Then he burst forward and Cabaye, without breaking run played it back first-time.

A two-on-two, dispatched in a moment. Netherlands's midfield press was suddenly behind them.

Free of the press, Julien didn't dwell on the ball. He clipped it directly to Debuchy making the run on the right.

Debuchy was already at high speed. He took the pass and drove forward but Blind stayed close and was clinging on.

There was no space to work with. Debuchy didn't dare to gamble. He laid it back into Julien's path.

Julien met the ball on the move, made no touch to set it up, and nudged it inside toward the edge of the box in one motion. The single flick took him past Sneijder's recovery run.

A centre-back came across to cut him off.

Cillessen edged toward the near post looking wary of a direct shot.

Julien drew back his right foot in an obvious striker's wind-up.

Vlaar bought it. He lunged forward to block. Cillessen's weight also shifted.

That was the moment.

Julien rolled the ball softly away from Vlaar's outstretched leg—past the 'keeper's committed weight and restructured in a single motion.

The angle was open. Netherlands's retreating defenders couldn't get back in time. He could do nothing but watch.

Boom!

Julien swept the ball into the far corner.

Cillessen threw himself back with his arms reaching for the ball but his weight had already shifted and he was too late for the move.

The net snapped.

1–0.

Thirteen minutes in, France had broken the deadlock.

BOOM—BOOM—BOOM—

The Stade de France erupted in an enormous wall of noise that seemed to push against the roof of the stadium and roll out across the Paris night sky.

Julien ran to the advertising hoardings, slowed, and spread his arms wide doing his trademark celebration.

Under the floodlights, his blue shirt caught the light and seized it.

In the stands, the Bastia supporters felt the shift. For just a moment they lost their composure and felt the blue he wore wasn't French blue at all, but the blue of Bastia.

The red shirt he wore in England had felt foreign to them. But this—this was the Julien they knew.

Their voices were swallowed by the stadium around them but they kept singing.

The commentator was in full voice roaring.

"It's in! It's in! Julien! Again, Julien! Thirteen minutes gone—France's cornerstone steps forward and scores an immaculate goal to break the deadlock!

And it was coming, wasn't it? France had been utterly dominant for the first ten minutes.

But let's talk about the individual quality—that is Julien. The give-and-go in midfield, the feigned shot in the box, the roll past the goalkeeper's momentum, and finally that swept finish to the far corner—every single touch flowed into the next without a seam.

He is France's most reliable weapon, their floor and their ceiling both."

"And yet—" the commentator paused for a sec.

"I'll say it again: Netherlands tonight are simply not themselves. From the first whistle they've been passive, retreating, losing the midfield battle, leaking the gaps all over the back line.

Neither Julien's combination play, nor Debuchy's run down the right, nor anything else France tried found any real strong resistance. Concentration has been poor—and that's the real reason they've gone behind so early.

Now we'll see if Van Gaal can find a way back into this."

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