"Blue is the colour, football is the game
We're all together, and winning is our aim
So cheer us on through the sun and rain
'Cause Chelsea, Chelsea is our name..."
As both teams emerged from the tunnel back onto the Stamford Bridge pitch, the atmosphere ignited. Wave after wave of chanting crashed down from the stands, the roar of forty thousand voices never ceasing.
Julien tapped his boots against the touchline.
He stepped onto the field.
This time, there was no distraction. The outside world ceased to exist—only the pitch remained, a rectangle of war waiting for him.
Both teams began their pre-match rituals.
The English commentary team was already dissecting the lineups,
"Benítez with his tried-and-true 4-2-3-1 formation. Torres up top; Hazard, Mata, and Oscar forming the attacking trident behind him; Lampard and Ramires anchoring the midfield; Ashley Cole, David Luiz, Ivanović, and Azpilicueta across the back four, with Čech between the sticks. On Chelsea's bench, we've got quality depth—Cahill, Demba Ba, Terry among others."
"Bastia, on the other hand, have abandoned their usual 4-3-3 or 4-2-3-1. Manager Hadzibegic has gone defensive—a flat 4-4-2. He's clearly not here to play football with Chelsea. This is about damage limitation, pure survival."
"Up front, two men: Lukaku and the much-discussed Julien De Rocca."
Midfield four: Palmieri, Rothen, De Bruyne, Kanté.
Defense: Sidibé, Choplin, Van Dijk, Angoula.
And on loan from Arsenal, young goalkeeper Emiliano Martínez.
But compared to Chelsea's bench? Bastia's options are thin.
No plan B here."
The commentary analysis sent confidence surging through Chelsea supporters watching the broadcast. Most hadn't seen Bastia play, but hearing the disparity made them believe this was already wrapped up.
Bastia were like every other underdog—they could scrape together one decent starting XI, but once you stretched them, forced them into the late game, they'd collapse under the pressure.
On the pitch, the opening ceremony continued.
As the Premier League's last remaining representative in Europe, this match drew attention far beyond Chelsea's fanbase. Across England, supporters of rival clubs, executives in boardrooms, scouts with notepads—all were watching.
Because English clubs had already set their sights on Bastia's players.
In their eyes, this French minnow would suffer the same fate as every other dark horse: their squad gutted, cherry-picked, scattered to the winds by summer's end.
It was the destiny of every overachieving underdog.
Soon enough, the formalities ended. At exactly nine o'clock in the evening, in sync with the other Europa League semifinal kicking off across Europe—
Tweet!
The match began.
Chelsea took the kickoff. Torres touched it back, and immediately every Bastia player including Lukaku and Julien began retreating into their own half.
This was the tactical foundation for tonight: extreme defensive counterattacking.
Chelsea had intended to press early, seize the initiative, but seeing Bastia's immediate retreat, Mata collected the ball and raised a calming hand.
Slow it down. Be patient.
Benítez had warned them before kickoff: Bastia wouldn't give them space. This would be trench warfare, pure attrition.
So, the tempo started leisurely, controlled.
The broadcast cameras found Chelsea owner Roman Abramovich in his seat, with Marina Granovskaia and CEO Ron Gourlay. Abramovich sat expressionless as ever, watching his investment play out below.
"Wonder what's going through Abramovich's mind right now," The commentator pondered aloud.
"Three former Chelsea players in Bastia colors tonight. Does he want them to shine, or does he want them buried? Especially De Rocca. Let's not forget—De Rocca left Chelsea after beating the hell out of one of Abramovich's favorite Russian academy prospects.
That Russian kid's now washed out of English football, can't even get game time in the Russian Premier League now. Meanwhile, De Rocca clawed his way up from rock bottom and now stands on the verge of superstardom. He's the hottest transfer target in Europe this summer.
You have to wonder—has Abramovich put De Rocca's name back on his wishlist?"
The cameras didn't pan to Bastia's directors, Geronimi and Chataigner, sitting somewhere in the stands. They were nobodies.
If Bastia hadn't become the most improbable story in French football, who would care about some Mediterranean island club?
Europe was littered with teams like them.
In the seats behind Bastia's bench, Geronimi and Chataigner watched anxiously as Chelsea compressed Bastia's defensive shape into something flat and desperate.
Their hearts pounded. One mistake, and Chelsea would rip them apart.
But there was another weight pressing down on them, something they both understood without saying: the moment Bastia started making history, they'd entered the crosshairs of Europe's predators.
Chataigner had already fielded exploratory inquiries from clubs across the top four leagues. Everyone wanted to buy their players.
What surprised them most was who drew the most interest. Logic said it should be Julien, the goalscoring phenomenon. But the truth was stranger.
Kanté. Van Dijk. Mané.
These were the names clubs kept asking about.
Especially Kanté.
In just a few short months, Kanté had become indispensable to Bastia's defensive structure. His performances had been nothing short of brilliant.
Like right now.
12th Minute
From kickoff, Kanté had essentially shadowed Mata across the pitch. Every time the Spaniard received possession, Kanté was there—two yards away, cutting off angles, disrupting rhythm.
Mata was used to being targeted. Every Premier League manager had studied Benítez's tactics inside and out; everyone knew Mata was the metronome. Cut him out, you cut Chelsea's circulation.
But this was very different.
He couldn't shake this guy.
Mata collected the ball near the center circle in Chelsea's half. Kanté closed instantly, body tight, using his low center of gravity to seal off the turn. His foot stabbed out, disrupting Mata's touch.
Mata stumbled, barely managed a pass backward. Kanté immediately turned, cutting off the return ball before Mata could even think about asking for it back.
"Again! It's Kanté!" the commentator shouted. "The moment Mata touches it; this little Frenchman sticks to him like glue!
Physical, relentless, constantly harrying—Mata can't even turn!
He's forced back again!
Look at Kanté's anticipation, his foot speed. Center of gravity impossibly low. Mata can't shift him, can't outmuscle him. And Kanté doesn't dive in recklessly—he just applies constant pressure, shrinking Mata's time and space until there's nothing left. Mata's completely neutralized!
No wonder Arsenal and Manchester United are both sniffing around. This young French midfielder is something special."
It wasn't just Kanté. Van Dijk was commanding at the back. Sidibé was disciplined on the flank. Even Martinez had made a couple of sharp, if unspectacular, saves.
Only Julien had been invisible.
Nearly ten minutes gone, and he'd barely touched the ball.
Bastia's supporters were growing anxious. They can't get the ball forward.
Chelsea made mistakes, lost possession but immediately swarmed to win it back. High press, suffocating recovery runs.
Worse still, Bastia's defensive line was beginning to buckle.
The problem was on the left side.
With Mata locked down, Chelsea had shifted tactics: direct, aggressive wing play. Exploit individual quality.
And the ball kept finding Eden Hazard.
14th Minute
Hazard drove at Angoula with the ball glued to his feet. Sharp feint, sudden acceleration—Angoula lunged desperately, late, clumsy. The referee's whistle screeched.
Yellow card.
On the touchline, Hadzibegic's face tightened, brow furrowed.
Hazard.
Hadzibegic knew him well. Back when Julien was at Lille, it had been Julien's solo brilliance that dismantled Hazard's side in the Coupe de France, paving the way for that historic cup victory.
Now Hazard was at Chelsea, and he'd hit the ground running.
Hadzibegic had studied him obsessively in preparation. And one match stood out there: Chelsea 2-0 West Ham.
Sky Sports gave Hazard a match-high 9/10.
"A dominant performance," they'd written.
One assist to break the deadlock, one goal to seal it, and countless other chances created. Hazard had terrorized West Ham from first whistle to last. Every time their defenders caught their breath, he was already at their throats again.
That goal was pure individual brilliance. After a slick combination with Mata, Hazard had cut inside at full speed, chested the ball down mid-stride, flicked it past a lunging defender with his instep, then buried a precise low finish with his left foot.
From the moment Mata's pass left his boot to the ball hitting the back of the net: four seconds. Hazard had been a blur, a gust of wind tearing through the defense.
Plenty of players could dribble. But what separated the world-class from the merely good was what came next—the final pass, the finish. Some players (Gervinho came to mind) could beat three men and then balloon the final ball into the stands. Hazard wasn't like that. After beating you, he killed you.
That's why Julien's stock had risen even higher this season.
Yes, Hazard was 22, entering his prime. But Julien was still only 18. And Julien's close control, his ability to manipulate the ball at full speed was even tighter than Hazard's.
But tonight, as Hazard began to take over the match, Julien still hadn't found space to breathe.
Up front, Julien felt the frustration building.
They can't get the ball forward.
De Bruyne had tried twice to thread passes into the attacking third, but Chelsea's midfield collapsed on him both times. The ball never reached Julien's feet.
De Bruyne spread his hands apologetically.
Julien understood. It wasn't Kevin's fault.
If Hadzibegic knew to strangle Mata, of course Benítez knew to strangle De Bruyne.
And it wasn't just Kevin under pressure, Julien himself was marked out of existence.
Ashley Cole had completely abandoned attacking duties, hovering continuously in Julien's zone. David Luiz lurked just behind, ready to double-team at the first sign of danger.
Meanwhile, Lukaku was left in a one-on-one battle with Ivanović.
Benítez was confident: Cole and Luiz could neutralize Julien.
Just as Julien was hunting for opportunity and the crowd began settling into the rhythm of the match, Stamford Bridge exploded.
Hazard.
This time his feet were a blur—stepover, chop, acceleration. Angoula lunged desperately, completely off-balance. Rothen sprinted across to cover, but Hazard shifted the ball with the outside of his boot, gliding past him like he wasn't there.
Martinez had positioned himself at the near post, anticipating a shot.
Van Dijk moved to close Hazard down, trying to block the angle.
But Hazard's ankle flicked at the last instant—not a shot.
A pass.
THUMP.
The ball zipped across the six-yard box. Torres had peeled off Van Dijk's shoulder, exploiting the gap created when the Dutchman stepped to Hazard.
Choplin couldn't match Torres's burst of acceleration. Not even close.
Torres met the ball perfectly, a deft side-foot finish.
SWISH.
Past Martinez's outstretched fingers.
1-0.
Stamford Bridge detonated. Forty thousand voices were roaring as one.
Torres spread his arms wide, sprinting toward the corner flag, teammates mobbing him. The golden boy was proving himself again—proving he was still Fernando Torres, still T9.
Benítez pumped his fist on the touchline, exhaling hard. One goal opens the floodgates.
He glanced sideways at the Bosnian coach in the away dugout, unable to suppress a slight smirk.
In Benítez's assessment, Bastia's victories over Spurs and Inter weren't because Bastia were strong—it was because those teams had self-destructed. Both managed by young, idealistic coaches who'd out-thought themselves.
Tactically naive. Adoringly stupid.
Bastia itself as a team was not that impressive in his view.
At his moment, English Commentators were going wild:
"GOAL! TORRES! HAZARD! Magical from the Belgian! He slalomed past Angula and Rothen like they were training cones, then delivered the perfect square ball! Torres was lurking and he made no mistake!
1-0 to Chelsea! This is the script we expected. Bastia's defensive structure is cracking under sustained pressure. Hazard's individual quality has unlocked the door, and Torres's movement found the space!"
The broadcast cut to the away section—a few hundred Bastia supporters sitting in stunned silence, some with heads in hands.
Then to the home end, a sea of blue bouncing, scarves twirling.
The English commentary continued:
"The fairytale is fading fast. Bastia are being outclassed in every department. Julien, the Europa League's top scorer, has been a ghost—barely a touch in thirty minutes. Bastia's famed counterattack has been completely stifled by Chelsea's midfield control and high press. They look out of ideas."
Walking back to the center circle with his teammates, he caught De Bruyne and Rothen.
"Don't look for the pass," Julien said, voice urgent. "Don't wait for the perfect ball. Just hit it long. I'll be there. We're too deep—if you try to play it out carefully, we'll never get forward. We need to be direct. Fast. It's our only chance."
De Bruyne and Rothen both looked strained, the pressure was written across their faces.
Chelsea were every bit as formidable as their reputation was. The intensity, the suffocating press—it was overwhelming.
But hearing Julien's words, they nodded.
Julien turned to the rest of the team, clapping his hands sharply, urging them to lift their heads.
"The match isn't over!"
"We lose this leg, we've still got the second leg at home!"
On the touchline, Hadzibegic was frantically waving his arms, screaming instructions about holding the defensive shape.
He kept glancing at Angoula's positioning, gesturing for Rothen to provide more cover.
But ten minutes later, Stamford Bridge exploded into frenzy once more.
Hazard.
Again.
This time, he'd received the ball on the left wing with Angoula tight on him, forcing him toward the touchline. Hazard faked a turn, created just enough space, and dinked a pass inside to Lampard.
A Wall pass.
Hazard spun and accelerated into the space, took the return ball, and cut inside sharply.
Van Dijk hesitated—press or hold?—and that moment of indecision was fatal.
Hazard drilled a shot low and hard. Back of the net.
"UNBELIEVABLE! HAZARD AGAIN!" the English commentary roared. "Bastia fans are all too familiar with this kind of brilliance, aren't they? They've watched Julien tear through defenses all season! But tonight, it's Hazard doing the dismantling! 2-0! Benítez's side are one step closer to the final!"
In France, TF1's commentary had turned somber.
"Bastia's defense looks helpless against Hazard. Angoula's been beaten repeatedly. Van Dijk looks uncertain, hesitant. Chelsea have clearly done their homework—they've identified every weak point in Bastia's system. Even with Kanté neutralizing Mata, Hazard's dominance on the left is decisive.
The miracle of Corsica is fading under Stamford Bridge's floodlights. They've fought with everything they have, but the gulf in class is undeniable. De Bruyne can't build attacks. Lukaku and Julien's speed is useless when the ball never reaches them. Bastia's weapons have been systematically dismantled.
This defeat may signal the end of a fairytale. Reaching the Europa League semifinals is already legendary for a club like Bastia. But reality is harsh.
Summer approaches, and Julien, De Bruyne, Kanté—these shining names will be hunted by Europe's giants. Bastia won't be able to keep them. This dream season may be drawing to a close."
Back in Bastia, those who couldn't travel to London gathered around screens across the island. At Stade Armand Cesari, the club had set up a big screen in the stadium itself, charging a symbolic €1 entry.
After all, every step Bastia takes now is a step towards history, and every away game is crucial
But now, approaching the 30-minute mark, Bastia still had zero shots. Not even half-chances. Meanwhile, Chelsea had two goals.
Hope was evaporating.
The atmosphere in Cesari had shifted from anticipation to silence.
At Stamford Bridge, it was the opposite—pure euphoria.
Chelsea supporters roared, waved flags, sang their hearts out.
Some of the more aggressive fans had even begun mocking chants, targeting Julien, KDB, Lukaku.
They'd taken the tune of an old terrace song and twisted it into something cruel, dripping with sarcasm—
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