"Booooooooooooooo"
The thunderous boos came from the packed stands of Roazhon Park like a torrential rainstorm. Rennes supporters, in their signature red and black scarves, erupted into a frenzy of disapproval.
Empty cola cups arced through the air, tumbling end over end before clattering onto the pitch near where the Bastia players maintained their composure with indifference.
The hostility reached a crescendo when crimson smoke bombs burst to life in the Bastia half—ironically, the direction Rennes would be attacking.
Plumes of pungent red smoke rose across the green turf, creating an otherworldly atmosphere that transformed the stadium into something resembling a battlefield more than a football pitch.
Perhaps the passionate home supporters believed their pyrotechnics would somehow aid their team's attack on the opposition goal.
But the Bastia players remained composed, their expressions revealing nothing but focused determination. They had grown accustomed to the nature of French football culture.
As it was well known in football folklore: the Premier League brought its rain, La Liga its choking dust, the Bundesliga its snow, Serie A its fog, and Ligue 1 its smoke displays.
Hadzibegic stood motionless on the touchline, his arms crossed as smoke swirled around him. Two goals ahead, his team had every reason to celebrate wildly, and they had done exactly that. His face showed neither concern for the hostile environment nor satisfaction with the impressive lead.
High above the chaos, in the comfortable press box, the Ligue 1 commentator's voice had a tone of amusement as he surveyed the scene below. His eyes had witnessed countless matches, but Bastia's transformation remained remarkable to observe.
"Ladies and gentlemen, when we examine Bastia's three and a half matches this new season, one thing becomes clear, their summer transfer window was absolutely perfect. The two players on loan from Chelsea specifically: Romelu Lukaku and Kevin De Bruyne have demonstrated exceptional individual brilliance that genuinely belongs at Ligue 1's highest level."
He paused to sip his coffee, watching as De Bruyne orchestrated another attack. "In fewer than three complete league matches, Lukaku has already found the net twice, his physical presence is causing constant headaches for opposing defenders. Meanwhile, De Bruyne has been equally impressive with two goals and two assists."
The commentator's tone grew more pensive as he continued his analysis.
"Of course, we mustn't overlook Bastia's own jewel—Julien De Rocca remains their leading marksman with three goals in just two appearances. The local hero continues to write his legend with each match.
The cruel irony, naturally, is that both De Bruyne and Lukaku are here on simple loan agreements. Come season's end, they'll pack their bags and return to Stamford Bridge.
Bastia, despite their passionate support simply lacks the financial firepower to make these transfers permanent. Such is the modern game's harsh mathematics."
Miles from the stadium, in the cobblestone streets of Bastia's old town, the Sunset Bar was filled with nervous energy.
When De Bruyne hit the ball into the net, wine glasses were raised high, and voices turned hoarse from shouting "Kevin!".
Martin's face beamed with intense joy. His voice cracked with emotion as he said, "Kevin is absolute quality, pure class! Christ, I'm so jealous of Chelsea—they've got that Brazilian wonderkid Oscar plus Kevin in the same summer window. Their midfield depth is just obscene."
But not everyone shared his enthusiasm. Maslin who had been watching Bastia since the 1970s, adjusted his wire-rimmed spectacles and shook his gray head with the wisdom of someone who had seen countless promising players come and go.
"Don't get carried away dreaming about Chelsea, lad," Maslin advised. "What kind of team are they? What caliber of squad? Our Kevin and Romelu can't even secure regular playing time in that circus."
Another patron, a middle-aged teacher named François, leaned forward with a more leisurely assessment.
"Look, I'm not saying Kevin isn't talented—clearly he is. But honestly, he doesn't strike me as star material, not in the traditional sense. Always appears so serious, almost melancholy. His style isn't spectacular or eye-catching, and physically he's quite stocky. Playing in midfield, he looks somewhat cumbersome, lacks that graceful agility you expect from truly elite playmakers."
The debate continued as various opinions filled the smoky air, voices rising and falling like the tide. But eventually, as always happened in this particular Bar, the conversation settled toward familiar ground.
"At the end of the day, Julien is still our king," declared Martin, raising his glass high. "He's the one who truly belongs to us—flesh and blood of this island, a genuine legend who bleeds blue and red. These loan signings are lovely while they last, but Julien? He IS Bastia."
The gathered supporters nodded in solemn agreement, their glasses clinking together in tribute to their homegrown hero. They drank deeply and continued their discussions while the match unfolded on the television screen, completely absorbed in this weekly ceremony where their emotions rose and fell completely at the mercy of twenty-two men chasing a ball.
In the stands behind Bastia's bench.
Chataigner watched the match between Bastia and Rennes with a broad smile.
Last season's encounters with Rennes had been exercises in defensive desperation, with Bastia constantly pinned back, relying entirely on Julien's individual moments of brilliance to salvage results. Those matches had been wars of attrition, nerve-wracking affairs where every Rennes attack felt like a potential catastrophe.
But today was an entirely different scene. The transformation was remarkable—Rennes, despite playing at home with their fans passionate support, could no longer contain Bastia's many-sided attacking threat.
Even though they had wisely concentrated their defensive efforts on neutralizing Julien's devastating right-wing raids, deploying extra bodies to shadow his every movement, Bastia was no longer the one-dimensional team of the previous season.
Their left flank buzzed with dangerous intent, while central attacks flowed with brand-new fluidity. Rennes appeared genuinely stretched, their defensive shape constantly adjusting to counter threats emerging from multiple directions.
Of course, Chataigner also noticed the team's problems. The defensive line was unstable—center-backs like Choplin, Cahuzac, and Angoula had admirable fighting spirit and unwavering commitment but lacked technical sophistication and positional awareness required at this level.
At fullback, the situation was even more concerning. Cioni's limitations became more conspicuous with each passing match, his lack of pace and positional discipline became a constant source of anxiety whenever opposition wingers targeted his flank.
Behind them all, goalkeeper Novaes fought valiantly but his average height and suspect shot-stopping ability represented another area of concern that the limited budget couldn't address.
Chataigner's gaze shifted between the fluid attacking combinations playing out in front of him and the vulnerable defensive structure supporting them, his expression growing more troubled by the minute.
The budget was what it was. There was really nothing more he could do about the defense.
Crash!
Just as Chataigner was thinking this, the Rennes fans let out a collective gasp.
On the left wing, Rennes attacked. Midfielder Sadio Diallo played a diagonal long pass, switching play to Alessandrini on the left.
The latter received the ball and, facing Cioni's defense, performed two stepovers before cutting inside. Cioni immediately planted his foot to follow. But he slipped.
He could only watch as Alessandrini completed his cut inside.
Erdinc made a quick run into the penalty area, drawing away Choplin and Angoula.
Bang!
Alessandrini spotted the gap and unleashed a fierce shot.
The ball flew toward goal.
Novaes threw himself at it, but as a relatively small goalkeeper at only 184cm, he had no chance against Alessandrini's far-corner curler.
Swoosh!
The ball hit the net.
In the 33rd minute, Rennes had pulled one back at home.
The home fans erupted in frenzied cheers. Alessandrini pumped his fist toward the stands but didn't celebrate long, quickly beckoning his teammates toward the center circle.
They not only had a chance to equalize but could potentially turn the match around!
Hazdibegic shook his head repeatedly on the sideline.
If only Novaes had been slightly taller, he might have had a chance to save it.
Beside him, Antonetti, seeing his team score, pointed to the team's midfield playmaker Diallo and gestured to him.
Attack down the left.
Antonetti had identified Bastia's right-back Cioni as a major weakness.
The left-back Sidibe was a different story entirely.
In this match, Pitroipa was completely locked down by Sidibe.
Julien waved to his teammates, then pressed both hands downward, signaling to slow the tempo.
Every time Julien touched the ball in this match, he faced a three-man press. Parot and Theophile constantly marked him.
Plus, Mvila and Alessandrini, who were ready to drop back and help defend at any moment.
The main threats were coming from Palmieri and Lukaku.
Palmieri's attacking efficiency had declined with age, and Lukaku hadn't brought his shooting boots today either.
Rothen occasionally moved forward to form a double pivot with De Bruyne for organization.
Kanté played as the lone defensive midfielder.
On the left, Sidibe's overlapping runs were useful, but on Cioni's side, there was no chance for forward runs.
Antonetti focused his defensive efforts on the right flank and also made it his main attacking route.
This definitely made things difficult for Bastia.
Beep!
The referee's whistle signaled half-time.
The players returned to the dressing room.
After entering the locker room, Hazdibegic addressed the players: "You've played well in this match. Maintaining our lead away from home is excellent."
"However, the team is currently experiencing some issues that I'm sure you can feel yourselves—the play isn't flowing smoothly."
"Moreover, we're only one goal ahead, which isn't safe. So, in the second half, we need to make some changes."
With that, Hazdibegic looked at Cioni. "Gilles, you need to rest."
Cioni nodded. He knew his first-half performance had been poor and was mentally prepared to be substituted.
Since the team's promotion to Ligue 1, he'd felt there was no place for him in the squad.
Hazdibegic's gaze swept across the room. Clauss unconsciously straightened up—he was waiting for a chance to play.
But Hazdibegic ultimately looked toward Cahuzac. "Yannick, go warm up. You'll play right center-back in the second half."
"Angoula."
Hazdibegic continued his tactical assignments. "You'll move out wide in the second half, playing right-back."
Angoula nodded.
Beyond that, Hazdibegic made no further personnel changes. In the corner, Mané looked somewhat dejected.
Like Clauss, he too was waiting for a chance to play.
But perhaps his previous performance had been too poor.
Hazdibegic currently had no plans to use him.
Both Chataigner and Julien had told him to be patient—opportunities would come.
Mané sighed softly. He'd wait.
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