Benítez's expression froze solid.
He stood on the touchline, hands buried deep in his coat pockets, body leaning forward, eyes filled with disbelief, deep disappointment, and a flicker of bewilderment.
He shook his head unconsciously, lips pressed into a thin line, as if trying to swallow something bitter.
When Hadzibegic celebrated wildly, Benítez simply turned stiffly and trudged back to his seat.
He slumped down heavily, rubbing his temples hard. His gaze went empty, as though he needed time to process this devastating blow.
Around the world, commentators struggled to articulate their shock:
"GOAL! DE BRUYNE! 2-0! Incredible! Bastia have scored twice in twenty-three minutes against Chelsea! The aggregate is now 4-2! Nobody predicted this dream start!
What a ball from Julien—this is his genius on full display. Not just world-class finishing, but elite-level creativity and vision.
Any opponent would fear a player like this!
Stade Cesari has absolutely erupted! Bastia fans can see the path to the final opening before their eyes, while Chelsea's players look shell-shocked. Benítez stands on the touchline ashen-faced. He needs a miracle!
But the situation looks increasingly like an abyss!
Bastia are writing their own incredible European story!"
The excitement was genuine. Most of these Bastia fans hadn't lived through the club's previous Europa League era—and back then, football was far less accessible anyway.
But now?
The miracle was unfolding right before their eyes.
Both teams returned to the center circle. Chelsea's players wore the same glazed expressions as their traveling supporters in the away section.
Tweet!
Kickoff.
Chelsea's attacks followed familiar patterns—lateral movement, individual quality, hopeful crosses. But after conceding twice, Bastia's morale had reached its peak.
And their counterattacks remained sharp.
In the 31st minute, Julien broke free again, racing to the edge of the box. Surrounded by three defenders, he unleashed a long-range piledriver that beat Čech's fingertips—but crashed against the post.
A golden chance was missed.
The crowd groaned together, but their disappointment couldn't dim the broader mood.
The singing had already started, growing louder by the minute.
Chelsea were lost in Bastia's defensive maze.
By the time injury time arrived, the visitors had managed only a handful of speculative efforts from distance—nothing remotely threatening.
TWEET!!
Finally, the referee blew for halftime.
The scoreline shocked observers worldwide. Chelsea's players trudged off looking deflated. Meanwhile, Bastia's squad, though physically drained from intense defending, radiated manic energy.
HALF-TIME
TF1's summary captured the mood: "What a stunning first half! Bastia have used two lightning counterattacks to put Chelsea on the brink of elimination!
4-2 on aggregate with two away goals—Bastia are just forty-five minutes from the final!
Hadzibegic's tactics have worked to perfection: compress space, defend resolutely, then strike like lightning on the break.
And Julien De Rocca's been absolutely magnificent. First, he used pure speed to tear open the defense, endured fouls and grappling, yet still delivered the assist before scoring the rebound. Then came that devastating wing raid, leaving defenders for dead before calmly finding De Bruyne—one man's completely dismantling Chelsea's defensive structure.
Chelsea, meanwhile, face both tactical and psychological crisis. They've had plenty of possession but can't penetrate the massed Bastia defense. Their attacks are laborious and toothless.
They emphasized stopping Julien before kickoff, but Moses and Ramires can't live with his acceleration. The backline looks clumsy and panicked every time he runs at them.
In the second half, Chelsea must attack desperately, needing two goals minimum without conceding again. But pushing forward will leave oceans of space for Julien to exploit. Benítez faces an impossible dilemma.
Bastia need only to maintain their advantage and use Julien as their spear—and they'll be celebrating a place in the final."
Across France and around the world, fans watching the broadcast were stunned. They'd expected Bastia might score, but Chelsea getting shut out entirely? With that squad?
Social media exploded:
"I'm dreaming, right? 2-0?! Amsterdam is calling our name! Cesari is the gateway to paradise tonight!"
"Look at that scoreline! That beautiful '2'! We're one match from the final—and we're winning THIS one! Destiny is smiling on us!"
"Hadzibegic is a tactical genius! Who predicted we'd dominate Chelsea like this? Compress, squeeze, then BAM—counterattack like a switchblade!"
"Don't sleep on Kanté either. Everyone watches Julien, but Kanté's been burning himself out—omnipresent tackles, harassing their playmakers like a terrier. Him and Rothen built the shield that lets Julien attack freely!"
"Listen to the singing! Look at the tears on people's faces! Remember our history—Corsica's struggles, fighting through the lower leagues, that magical cup run! This 2-0 is a slap in the face to everyone who mocked us as just a little island club! For this pride, we'll fight to the last drop of blood!"
"Remember this feeling, this heartbeat! This is Bastia's historic moment! Every one of us is part of this legend!"
As the fans understood, this night belonged to Bastia.
Not to Chelsea.
CHELSEA DRESSING ROOM
Benítez stood in the center, his face not showing rage, but something colder.
Once everyone had turned in, he nodded to his assistant to close the door. He picked up the tactics board but didn't draw on it—instead, he rapped it hard against Julien's name.
"Everything we emphasized before kickoff, everything we practiced, everything we feared—it's all happening exactly as predicted.
Julien De Rocca. His name, his attributes, his movement patterns..."
Benítez's gaze swept the room, lingering particularly on his defenders.
"I thought we took him seriously enough. Apparently not. Our 'seriousness' stayed in the team talk—never made it into our heads, and certainly never into our legs."
Moses, young and less hardened, wriggled under that stare. But veterans like Ramires had seen it all before. They simply avoided eye contact.
Let him rant. Everyone knew Benítez was gone at season's end anyway. These Champions League winners weren't intimidated by him.
"Once, twice—he used pure pace to destroy us! We needed desperate, embarrassing, repeated fouls just to slow him down. And then what? Where was our focus after those fouls? On him! On the referee! But not on our defensive shape!
So on the first goal, he gets up instantly and finishes the rebound! That's an attitude problem. A concentration problem. It was complete failure."
Though Benítez had low emotional intelligence and struggled with man-management, he could read this room clearly enough. He knew his position.
His tone shifted toward weary sarcasm: "Our possession is high. Yes, we control the ball. But what's the point? Sterile, slow, unthreatening possession—all it does is give them time to recover shape and prepare their next counterattack!
Our passes stroke them gently, while theirs are daggers aimed straight at our heart."
He paused, genuine fatigue creeping into his voice. "I know many of you know—I'll be gone at season's end. Perhaps some think this result doesn't matter much to me anymore."
Another pause. He seemed to be confronting himself as much as them.
Then his volume surged, "Wrong! I still want this trophy! I need it to prove this half-season of struggle meant something!
But more importantly—you need it! Look at yourselves! You wear Chelsea's shirt—Champions League winners, Premier League champions. Whatever happens with managers, whatever comes next, your dignity and value on this pitch are yours to defend.
Right now, we're wearing these shirts while a French club grinds us into the dirt in front of the world. Our defense crumbles at the first sprint. Our attack is impotent.
Think about the fans in the stands, the people who'll watch this match later—your families, your children. What will they think of these forty-five minutes?"
Benítez continued speaking into the void. Nobody responded. He shook his head and outlined the second-half plan.
"The tactics are simple. Against De Rocca, deny him space to accelerate. Tactical fouls when necessary, but clean ones, far from dangerous areas. Midfield must give him physical contact—don't let him turn and drive forward!
In possession, increase tempo. Play brave passes. Get in the box. Exploit channels behind their fullbacks. Use the width.
We need goals, but first we need to stop conceding. I've worked for this club nearly a full season. I know your quality better than anyone—you're capable of far more than this.
Show your fighting spirit. Not for me—for your professional pride, for Chelsea's honor. If you want to leave any legacy beyond being remembered as failures, then in the second half, go out there and fight."
The response wasn't the rallying cry he'd imagined. Players nodded vaguely. There was no fire in their eyes.
Terry sat in the corner, not even pretending he might speak. Lampard, though starting, showed no enthusiasm for Benítez's words.
Only Torres, Benítez's fellow Spaniard and fellow lame duck, offered token support: "Let's get that goal."
A smattering of applause.
Awkward silence.
Benítez felt nothing—or claimed to. He left the room. He couldn't stand looking at them anymore.
BASTIA DRESSING ROOM
The contrast was overall.
Hadzibegic wore a huge smile, and spoke rapidly, "We're facing Chelsea—a cornered lion worth hundreds of millions of pounds. They have no way out. In the second half, you'll see a Premier League giant's most desperate assault. The storm is coming. They'll use every weapon—attack! Attack! ATTACK! Ten times more ferocious than the first half!
Our job is simple: hold the line. Like rocks holding back the sea, withstand every wave they throw at us! Maintain our defensive shape, compress the space, never give them easy shooting opportunities! Every clearance, every interception—treat it like the last ball of the match..."
Hadzibegic drilled defensive details obsessively, even walking Van Dijk and Choplin through specific scenarios against Torres.
He desperately wanted this victory. Julien had delivered perfection—now they just had to defend.
After covering defense exhaustively, he turned to Julien: "Julien, you've been flawless—our hero. In the second half, I don't need you sprinting back seventy meters to defend.
I need you up front. Be a lighthouse. Be a bomb that could detonate any second. Pin their defenders back, make them terrified to commit everyone forward. Your presence alone is the greatest help to our defense."
He addressed the whole room in loud voice rising, "And everyone else must support Julien! When he needs a pass, give him a simple option! When he needs a breather, run an extra yard to cover his zone! We're one unit—we use united strength to overcome individual limits!"
Instructions poured out, specific and precise.
The room buzzed with excitement tempered by exhaustion. Hadzibegic clapped his hands sharply, demanding final focus.
"You've played a half worthy of Corsican history. But it's only half! Just half!
Go out there and fight for our first European trophy! Listen—all of Bastia's heart beats for us right now! We're forty-five minutes from Amsterdam's final!
Forty-five minutes from matching history and making history!
Think about our journey! From the Championnat National to this moment, countless people mocked us, dismissed us, called us just a little island club. But tonight, right now, we've got a European giant under our boot.
These forty-five minutes aren't just about winning a match. They're for everyone who believed in us! For generations of supporters who've backed this club! For Bastia's glory!
This match means more than you can imagine. It'll become legend, told forever. So hold firm! Use willpower to replace fading legs! Use your bodies to build Cesari's strongest wall! For your brothers beside you, for every Bastia fan in the stands, for our shared dream!"
The room ignited.
Unlike Chelsea's cold reception, Bastia's young squad fed on this energy—easy to fire up, hungry to prove themselves.
Beyond Bastia, currents stirred in the shadows.
Countless eyes tracked this match, particularly focused on Bastia's players. Especially Julien.
In the executive box, Abdullah returned from a phone call, smiling broadly. He said nothing—because during halftime, a decision had been made.
Go all-in on Julien.
Forget the club for now. Julien was the priority.
They could buy a prestigious team, but without top elite players, they'd never achieve their goals. But with Julien? Build around him, and Abdullah's superiors were confident they could assemble a genuinely elite squad.
Chataigner didn't know these thoughts. Seeing Abdullah smile at him, he smiled back automatically.
When dealing with these wealthy patrons, just smile. A hundred thousand euros were dropped casually—so one must keep them happy.
As supporters filled the stands again, both teams emerged from the tunnel.
No substitutions yet, but the difference in body language was stark. Chelsea looked deflated. Bastia marched out with chests puffed.
Soon both teams stood at the center circle. The referee checked his watch.
TWEET!!
The TF1 commentator spoke over the whistle: "Welcome back to Stade Armand Cesari! The decisive forty-five minutes begins now!
Bastia return with a dream 4-2 aggregate advantage and two away goals. They need only preserve this lead to reach the Europa League final once more.
Hadzibegic will surely demand tough discipline in defense while using Julien and Lukaku as lethal counter-weapons. Chelsea have been pushed to the absolute brink..."
From kickoff, Chelsea showed genuine attacking intent.
But barely ten minutes in, a whistle blow sent a chill through every Chelsea heart in the stadium.
________________________________________________________
Author's Note:
As this year comes to a close, I want to thank everyone of you for welcoming my stories into your lives. Your support and enthusiasm means the world to me.
May your Christmas be filled with warmth, and joy. Here's to more stories together in the year ahead.
Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!