The broadcast commentator's voice thickened with emotion, cracking slightly:
"Look at this! The Ultras of Stade Cesari have delivered a stunning visual declaration! A massive portrait of Julien De Rocca dominates the entire section—it must be forty meters wide! His arms spread wide, as if embracing the entire stadium—embracing Corsica's future! And cradled between those arms, five symbols of glory!
This tifo represents the most passionate, fervent hope of Corsican football! It tells Julien De Rocca, tells every Bastia player: We remember the glory you've brought us. We dream of conquering peaks not yet touched. We believe you can carry us to places we've never been!"
The broadcast immediately cut to a close-up of Julien, the camera zooming in to capture every flicker of emotion.
"Look at Julien De Rocca! He's gazing up at this enormous portrait of himself—his expression looks complex, almost overwhelmed! Shock, emotion, and burning determination fighting for control of his face!
He sees the supporters' faith rendered in paint and cardboard, feels the weight of responsibility settling on his shoulders, and beholds those five trophies—three shining complete, two waiting to be fully illuminated! That expectation weighs heavy as mountains, yet it ignites the fire in his eyes!
This is the power of football! This is the purest, most moving connection between supporters and players! At Stade Cesari, Julien isn't merely a footballer—he's become Bastia's spiritual totem, their hope made flesh! With this tifo, the fans have entrusted their hearts, their dreams, their entire season's struggle and hunger to their young captain!"
In that moment, Julien's fighting spirit blazed like a furnace. He strode toward the center circle.
On the touchline, Hadzibegic and Benítez stood on opposite sides, expressions contrasting sharply. Hadzibegic's face displayed open worry.
Benítez appeared serene, almost detached, hands in his pockets as though the match didn't concern him, as though he were merely observing an interesting training exercise.
TWEET!
The referee's whistle pierced the air, cutting through the noise.
The Europa League semifinal second leg erupted into life.
Chelsea kicked off, Hazard rolling the ball sideways to Ramires. Rather than pressing immediately, they circulated possession patiently across their back line, side to side, probing for angles.
The first leg's devastating counterattack remained seared in their memory—that nightmarish moment when Julien had turned them inside out. They wouldn't be so reckless again. This time: precise, controlled buildup. No gaps. No risks.
Compared to the first leg, Bastia maintained their formation unchanged. Chelsea, however, had undergone significant alterations—Benítez's trademark "rotation madness" was on full display.
Oscar, anonymous in the first leg, completely dominated by Bastia's midfield intensity, was dropped from the starting XI. Mata pulled as well, despite being one of Chelsea's most creative threats. Hazard pushed into the central attacking role behind Torres. Moses started at left midfield.
Additionally, David Luiz moved forward into defensive midfield, his long passing range meant to bypass Bastia's press. Gary Cahill partnered Ivanović in central defense, both hardmen selected for their physical presence.
At left-back, Bertrand replaced Cole—supposedly a minor muscle issue for Cole, though realistically, after his bruising first-leg battle with Julien in a congested fixture list where Chelsea had played three matches in eight days, discomfort was inevitable.
Cole didn't even make the bench. His injury was likely worse than Benítez admitted to the press.
Chelsea showed no urgency. Bastia showed even less—the moment Chelsea kicked off, they dropped into a deep defensive block, everyone was behind the ball except Julien.
Hadzibegic's objective for this match was clear: lock it down, prevent Chelsea from scoring. That's why he'd rested the entire first team during the crucial league match against PSG three days ago. Everything staked on Europa League glory. Let the defensive warriors rest, let their legs recover, then throw everything into this battle.
CRACK!
Hazard jinked left and right in central areas, his quick feet buying half a second of space, and eased a through ball to Torres' diagonal run into the box. The Spanish striker had timed it perfectly, exploiting the gap between Van Dijk and Palmieri.
Torres didn't hesitate—one touch to settle, shifting the ball slightly right, then a thunderous strike from fourteen yards out! His laces connected cleanly, the ball was screaming toward the bottom corner.
Van Dijk had been tracking Torres' movement relentlessly. The instant Torres pulled the trigger, Van Dijk was already there, reading the shot through body language, turning his back to block it with his body.
The ball cannoned off Van Dijk's hip—thump—the impact was audible even over the crowd noise, deflecting high and wide toward the touchline for a corner.
"HEY! HANDBALL! HANDBALL!" Torres immediately appealed, rolling toward the referee with both arms raised, gesturing frantically that the ball had struck Van Dijk's arm.
The impact point near Van Dijk's hip had indeed glanced his arm where it hung naturally at his side.
The referee shook his head firmly, demonstrating arms tucked tight against the body—the universal signal. Natural position. No handball. He pointed decisively toward the corner flag.
Just four minutes in, Chelsea earned a right-side corner.
BOOOOO!
Chelsea supporters packed into the small away section howled in protest, hundreds of voices were united in outrage. Most neutral commentators acknowledged the decision was marginal, it was extremely difficult to call handball when the arm was in a natural position and the player was clearly trying to block with his body.
Chelsea quickly organized their corner routine, their tall players pushing into the penalty area like an invading army. Julien watched the aerial giants crowd the penalty area while he positioned himself outside the box near the center circle.
His heading ability wouldn't contribute much anyway against these monsters. Better to lurk for counterattacking opportunities, to be ready when the ball broke loose.
Corners were among the most dangerous situations for launching counters.
Chelsea left two players back: the 22-year-old Nigerian talent Moses, and Ramires were hovering near the halfway line. Both kept close watch on Julien, neither willing to commit fully forward.
Julien and Moses locked eyes briefly across yards of grass. This match, Moses and Bertrand would share primary defensive responsibility for Julien's right flank.
Moses possessed genuine talent—Chelsea hadn't paid Wigan £11.5 million for him last season on a whim. Wigan had bought him for just £3 million two years prior, developed him into a Premier League player, and flipped him for pure profit.
His greatest asset was blistering pace. Raw speed that could match almost anyone in the league.
That's precisely why Benítez started him tonight—speed to track back and help contain Julien defensively, while potentially exploiting that same pace going forward on the counter.
TWEET!
The referee's whistle. Julien refocused, watching Lampard prepare the delivery, adjusting his position slightly.
THUMP!
Lampard whipped the ball toward the congested center. Bodies jostled and strained.
Then, rising above the chaos was Van Dijk, soaring over everyone, outjumping Ivanović despite the Serbian's best efforts!
A commanding header sent the ball back outside the area.
The instant Van Dijk made contact, Julien had already anticipated the clearance, his body was already in motion.
While others were still searching for the ball's trajectory, necks craning upward, Julien was already sprinting toward the landing spot just outside the center circle.
As the ball descended, dropping out of the sky, Julien flicked it backward over his head with perfect touch, spinning in the same motion, his body rotating 180 degrees.
The flick and turn evaded Hazard's charging press in one fluid movement, the Belgian arrived a split-second too late, his momentum was carrying him past the now-empty space where Julien had been.
ROAAAAAR!
The Bastia supporters erupted into frenzy.
COUNTERATTACK! BASTIA'S COUNTERATTACK!
Every eye in the stadium locked onto Julien, eighteen thousand pairs were sparkling with anticipation, already rising from their seats.
He accelerated to full speed after completing his turn. Moses and Ramires retreated desperately while reading Julien's running angle, trying to position themselves to intercept, to shepherd him wide, to slow him down somehow.
Julien ignored their positioning, driving straight at Chelsea's last line of defense at maximum velocity.
Moses braced for impact—first in the firing line, forced to commit or watch Julien run straight past him.
Julien charged directly at Moses' defensive stance. Seeing the gap open for a second as Moses' weight shifted, Julien knocked the ball forward into space with his right instep—tap—and exploded after it. No intricate footwork, no stepovers or feints. Just pure, devastating speed combined with perfect timing.
Moses tried to match him, throwing his own pace into the chase. Impossible. Julien was already gone, like a sprinter shifting into a gear Moses didn't possess. The ball rolled ahead of him like it was tied to his boots, his acceleration leaving Chelsea's defenders grasping at air as he stormed toward their goal...
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