The Chelsea ultras had found their rhythm now, their chants dripping with venom:
"Kevin De Bruyne! Where's your passing gone?
Warmed the Chelsea bench for so long,
Now at Bastia playing like he's someone!
Where's your passing? Where's it gone?"
Julien and Lukaku weren't spared either.
"Bastia recycling center! Taking Chelsea's trash!
Three failures! Still failures as a team!"
"Go home! London's rejects!"
"Kings in Corsica, mute in London!"
As Julien walked back to the center circle, he clapped De Bruyne on the shoulder.
"What the papers write, what the fans sing—that's all noise outside the game. It doesn't change the result."
"The result is decided here." He pointed down at their feet. "On the pitch."
"Everything they're shouting? Until the final whistle, it's just noise."
De Bruyne turned to look at Julien, exhaling deeply.
These thirty minutes had shaken him. Made him doubt himself.
Maybe they're right. Maybe I'm not good enough for Chelsea. Maybe I only belong at a club like Bastia.
No.
Looking at Julien, De Bruyne felt something strengthen inside him.
What do I mean by "only belong at Bastia"? Bastia isn't inferior to Chelsea. We're not.
"Yeah," De Bruyne said quietly. "Yeah."
Julien forced a slight smile, then continued toward the center circle.
Tweet!
The whistle blew. Same as before—Lukaku touched it off, Chelsea pressed high immediately.
This time, same pattern. Same outcome.
Julien received with his back to goal. Ashley Cole shoved him from behind.
The referee blew for the foul.
Cole shrugged, then wagged a finger at Julien dismissively.
One of the Premier League's finest left-backs, Cole was brimming with confidence.
French wonderkid? Please. Couldn't even get on the pitch for Chelsea.
Cole had been a striker himself from ages seven to fifteen. He understood forwards—how they thought, how they moved. When he'd transitioned to left-back in the youth teams, it had been seamless.
In interviews, Cole had often said he took pride in stopping opponents, protecting his goal, keeping clean sheets. That was his defensive philosophy.
Julien ignored the gesture completely.
He picked himself up and jogged forward.
At least he'd won Bastia a set piece. Maybe there'd be an opening.
There wasn't.
De Bruyne whipped in the delivery. Ivanović outmuscled Lukaku, heading clear toward midfield.
The ball almost sparked a Chelsea counterattack.
Fortunately, Torres took a heavy touch, and Van Dijk executed a perfectly timed sliding tackle, sending the ball out for a corner.
Both sides settled back into positional warfare.
37th Minute
Finally, Bastia found a sliver of space.
Rothen, positioned at right-back, spotted a gap in Chelsea's press. Without hesitation, he launched a raking diagonal ball toward the attacking third.
Julien read it instantly. He was already sprinting, calculating the trajectory, tracking Cole's position.
The ball dropped. Julien didn't control it—one touch, redirecting it into Lukaku's path as the Belgian burst forward.
But Ivanović was already there, muscling Lukaku off balance. The Serbian defender collected the ball, took two strides back, and calmly rolled it to Čech.
Bastia's counterattack snuffed out before it could ignite.
Julien shook his head, frustration simmering.
Lukaku did the same, but gave Julien a thumbs-up for the quick distribution.
Chelsea kept coming. Two goals up, but they wanted more. They wanted to bury Bastia completely.
The press continued, relentlessly.
But Chelsea's players had been attacking for forty minutes straight now. Fatigue was creeping in, small lapses were appearing.
Kanté saw his chance.
Mata received a pass in midfield, turning to face forward. Kanté slid in low, timing it perfectly, sweeping the ball away from the Spaniard's foot.
De Bruyne pounced on the loose ball, brought it under control.
He didn't hesitate. Julien's words echoed in his head.
Don't wait. Hit it long.
BOOM.
De Bruyne launched it—a soaring diagonal toward the right channel.
Julien was already moving. He'd started his run the instant Kevin's foot struck the ball.
But Ashley Cole and David Luiz hadn't lost their shape. They were still organized, still compact.
As Julien brought the ball down and tried to accelerate down the wing, both defenders closed in—one in front, one behind—boxing him in, cutting off the angles.
Julien didn't slow down. Didn't look for the outlet wide. He accelerated toward them.
Ashley Cole stepped up immediately, confused. Why's he running straight at us?
Cole moved to close the distance. As he did, Julien suddenly checked his run, a tiny deceleration, feinting hesitation.
Cole saw the opening. He extended his leg to cut off the space.
In that split second—
THWACK.
Julien's left foot jabbed the ball forward, threading it cleanly between Cole's legs.
A nutmeg.
And behind Cole, David Luiz who'd been drifting wide to cover the outside channel—was caught completely off guard.
The ball rolled straight through his legs too.
A double nutmeg.
ROARRRRR—
The entire stadium gasped.
Ashley Cole and David Luiz stood frozen, both momentarily stunned by what had just happened.
Before they could react, Julien exploded past them on the outside, ball glued to his boot, charging into the penalty area.
Luiz reached out desperately, fingers grasping at air.
Inches short.
"JULIEN!"
"JULIENOO!!"
Commentators and Bastia supporters alike were screaming his name now.
Just when everyone thought Julien had been neutralized, invisible—he'd struck.
Ivanović sprinted across from the far side, trying to recover, but the angle was all wrong. He was too far away.
Chelsea's last hope was Petr Čech.
The Czech wall. The shot-stopper who'd saved them countless times.
Čech came off his line, but cautiously. Facing Julien—a forward who loved rounding goalkeepers, Čech didn't commit his weight fully. He stayed balanced, ready to react.
Julien shifted the ball onto his right foot, shaping to shoot.
Čech didn't bite.
He's left-footed. His right's only good for passing. He'll cut back or try to go around me.
But as Čech calculated his next move—
BANG.
Julien didn't cut back. Didn't hesitate.
Left foot dragged the ball across. Right foot struck it cleanly—a thunderous strike, pure and direct.
No tricks. No dribbles. Just power.
Čech had been flat-footed, expecting something else. He threw himself across desperately, but he was a fraction too late.
The ball was already past him.
SWISH.
Top corner. Net rippling.
2-1.
Bastia had pulled one back.
They were still alive.
Julien didn't celebrate. No theatrics, no knee-slide.
He turned immediately, sprinted into the goal, grabbed the ball from the net, and tucked it under his arm.
He jogged back toward the center circle, waving his teammates forward urgently.
Though he hadn't celebrated, the goal's significance was enormous.
They could score. Chelsea weren't invincible.
Every Bastia player felt it—a flicker of belief reigniting. Eyes were brightened. Confidence was returning.
On the touchline, Hadzibegic punched the air, embracing his assistant coaches.
They were still losing. But Julien's goal had given them hope.
French Commentary (TF1):
"BUUUUUT!! A typical Julien goal! Magnificent! Earlier we said Hazard was tearing through Bastia like Julien tears through defenses—but when you give Julien even a sliver of space, he reminds you who's better!
Ashley Cole and David Luiz were skewered which is almost unthinkable! And even Čech, Chelsea's last line of defense, couldn't stop him!"
"Julien loves dribbling—from his youth days to now, that's never changed. It's his gift. But this goal? This was different. He didn't obsess over using his stronger foot. He didn't wait for the perfect opportunity. He saw the chance and took it. In my view, Julien's evolved again."
English Commentary:
"That was pure individual brilliance. Nothing to do with Bastia's system—just Julien taking matters into his own hands. And right now, that kind of heroism is exactly what Bastia need. Fortunately for them, they have him."
Back in Corsica, at Stade Armand Cesari, the stadium erupted.
"JULIEN!"
Supporters roared his name, voices hoarse, fists pumping. When the team had been drowning, their young captain had surfaced, gasping for air, dragging them back.
Some of the older fans had tears in their eyes.
Bastia had risen and fallen for decades. This season had given them something they'd almost forgotten—hope.
They didn't want it to end here.
They wanted the final.
They wanted to return to the Netherlands, to complete the dream that had died thirty-four years ago.
42nd Minute - Stamford Bridge
The match continued. Chelsea still pressed forward, but Bastia's defending had stiffened. That goal had changed something.
The spirit hadn't broken.
In the stands, Roman Abramovich sat motionless, his eyes were locked on the pitch.
Even Marina Granovskaia, sitting beside him, couldn't read his expression.
The seconds ticked down.
Tweet! Tweet!
The referee's whistle pierced the air.
Halftime.
Bastia's players exhaled collectively, relief washing over them. Julien's goal had kept them in the fight, stopped the floodgates from opening. They'd survived Chelsea's assault.
But the scoreline still stung.
Surrounded by a sea of blue, both teams trudged off toward the tunnel.
The door slammed shut, cutting off Stamford Bridge's roar.
The atmosphere inside was heavy. Players slumped on benches, chests heaving, sweat dripping onto the floor. Eyes glazed with exhaustion, edged with something close to doubt.
This had been their most brutal forty-five minutes all season.
The defensive pressure had been unrelenting. Not even Inter or Tottenham had attacked them with this ferocity, this precision.
Chelsea's forward line was simply superior—more clinical, more varied, more dangerous.
Bastia had been forced into a deep block, absorbing wave after wave.
And defending that deep meant surrendering possession, getting pinned back, absorbing punishment. It was exhausting, physically and mentally.
Even Van Dijk was breathing hard, chest rising and falling rapidly.
And Angoula? The left-back looked utterly shattered. His face was etched with guilt. Hazard had destroyed him. There was no other word for it. He'd been beaten again and again, and the yellow card he'd picked up meant the second half would be even harder—tentative, restricted.
Julien, as captain, could feel the mood in the room for the first time: helplessness.
It wasn't the 2-1 scoreline that had broken morale. It was the fact that Chelsea had controlled everything. Dictated terms and made Bastia look small.
Julien wasn't a rah-rah captain. He didn't do fiery speeches, theatrics, pounding fists on lockers.
But he knew he had to say something.
His eyes swept the room. He'd been planning an opening line, something to lift spirits—
Then he noticed everyone was already looking at him.
The words he'd prepared vanished.
He smiled faintly.
"It's only 2-1," Julien said simply. "We scored. That means their defense isn't unbreakable. And I haven't even gone to the left side yet. They tore up our left flank? Fine. I'll tear up theirs. Rest up. Just get me the ball a couple more times in the second half."
His tone was light, almost casual.
He glanced at De Bruyne.
Kevin nodded slightly.
Julien could tell—De Bruyne had been tight in the first half. Whether from nerves or Chelsea's press, his passing had been off. The two chances Julien had gotten, one had come from Rothen, not Kevin.
Sometimes, trying too hard to impress makes you tense up.
CREAK.
The door opened. Hadzibegic stepped inside, and the noise from the corridor—Stamford Bridge's distant hum leaked in briefly before the door closed again.
All eyes turned toward him.
"Alright, lads," Hadzibegic said immediately. "2-1 isn't the end of the world. We've got a crucial away goal. Julien's strike proved we can break them down."
Nods around the room.
His tone sharpened. "But we need to face facts. The problem is Hazard. He's demolished our left side."
His gaze found Angoula. Not accusatory—Hadzibegic understood this was a quality gap. Angoula had given everything, fought through pain and exhaustion from Ligue 2 to Ligue 1 to the Europa League semifinals. The man had nothing left to prove.
Hadzibegic's voice softened. "Angoula, you've done everything you could. Hazard's on fire tonight—stopping him isn't on you alone. But we have to adjust. If we don't, they'll score a third, maybe a fourth in the second half."
But how to adjust?
Hadzibegic had been thinking about this the entire walk from the pitch. Angoula clearly needed help. And the only player who could provide that kind of defensive cover was Kanté.
But Kanté was occupied with Mata.
It was a binary choice: let Hazard keep exploding down the left, or ease off Mata and absorb pressure through the center.
There was no real choice.
Hazard was already hurting them. He had to be contained.
"N'Golo," Hadzibegic said, "second half, your primary job isn't Mata anymore. I need you to expand your coverage area. Focus on the left side. When Hazard gets the ball, you and Angoula double-team him. Force him wide. Don't let him cut inside. If necessary, commit a tactical foul—but Angoula, you've got to be smart. You're on a yellow."
Both players nodded.
"Rothen, Kevin—you two cover Kanté's position centrally. Romelu, you'll need to drop deeper too. If necessary, we'll leave only Julien up top as a lone striker. We won't get many attacking opportunities. We have to defend properly first."
"Got it," came the united response.
Hadzibegic moved to the tactics board.
"Offensively, Chelsea's fullbacks are bombing forward. That leaves massive space in behind. We exploit that with pace. Every transition is a chance to hurt them. Be decisive with your runs!
Kevin—when we break, your passing has to be quicker and sharper. Less dribbling. Hit them in behind directly!"
As he said this, Hadzibegic's gaze drifted to Julien.
The media loved talking about Barcelona's "Messi dependency."
Well, Bastia had "Julien dependency" too.
But Hadzibegic didn't see that as a problem.
Why did people act like giving the ball to your best player wasn't a tactic?
Was it because their teams didn't have a player like that?
"Julien, you're free to roam across the front line. Find space wherever you can."
After going through a few more tactical details, Hadzibegic slapped the board.
"Listen! Chelsea are strong. They're excellent all over the pitch. But it's only forty-five minutes. Anything can happen. We survived their best punch in the first half! We're only one goal down! Think about Julien's strike! They're not invincible!"
"Stamford Bridge is loud? Let it be our soundtrack! The boos? That's pressure on them, not us! We just need to focus! Execute the plan! Trust each other!"
"Second half, two things:
One—lock the door. Shut down Hazard. Cut off one of their main attacking channels.
Two—be clinical on the counter. Use our speed to shred their defense. Score one more. Maybe even two."
"Remember—if we take an away goal back to Bastia, that's a victory! But here, at Stamford Bridge, we have a chance to take even more!"
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