After training concluded, Hadzibegic faced the pre-match press conference in the cramped media room beneath the stadium. Journalists from across Europe packed the space. Now that the championship decider had truly arrived, he remained remarkably restrained.
No bold proclamations. No dramatic promises. Just one steady sentence: "We will work hard to win this match."
Across the island, in Montpellier's hotel conference room, coach René Girard offered his perspective to a smaller but no less attentive media group.
"We should congratulate Bastia on an extraordinary season. Hadzibegic and his team deserve all the praise they've received. They've been the best team in France—consistent, defensively solid, and with match-winners when it matters.
Especially De Rocca—his performance has been phenomenal, historic really. The Ligue 1 single-season scoring record? Simply astonishing. And At eighteen years old, I'm not sure we'll see that broken in our lifetimes."
He paused, letting the compliments settle, then his tone changed.
"But we haven't come to Corsica to attend someone else's celebration party. We're not here to applaud politely and hand them the trophy. Last year, when nobody believed in us—when PSG had spent hundreds of millions and everyone predicted they'd walk the league, we proved that in football, belief can create miracles. We know what it feels like to be underdogs, to challenge the script, to disrupt the expected narrative. We've lived that story."
His eyes hardened.
"Tomorrow, we'll be the ones trying to write a different story. We'll play with respect for the champions-elect and pride as competitors and athletes. We'll fight for victory with everything we have. That's the best way to honor Bastia, honestly."
A journalist asked: "Do you think you can really get a result there? The atmosphere will be overwhelming."
Girard smiled. "We know Stade Armand-Cesari's atmosphere will be overwhelming. But that's exactly the challenge we're eager to face. The beauty of football is that advantages on paper don't always determine the final result. You still have to play the match. Anything can happen in 90 minutes.
We're ready. Our preparation has been excellent. The players are focused. We'll see what tomorrow brings."
That evening, Julien found sleep elusive.
He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling of his apartment, watching shadows shift as car headlights passed on the street below. Tomorrow, he might win the first top-level league title of his life.
These firsts always felt impossibly special. He remembered his first professional goal, the way time had seemed to slow as the ball left his foot. His first start. His first hat-trick. Each one burned into memory with perfect clarity.
Tomorrow could eclipse them all.
Throughout the evening, countless people had called or texted. His phone had barely stopped buzzing for three hours. So many souls were waiting for tomorrow evening, their hopes and dreams was compressed into brief messages.
Pierre, his father, had called twice: "Julien, all of Paris is talking about you. The newspapers, the television, everywhere. Tomorrow, don't overthink it—just run like you did as a kid on those gravel pitches in the suburbs, when it was just you and the ball and nothing else mattered.
Your mother says she's too nervous to attend, but I convinced her. I'll be with her. We're coming. I'm so proud of you, son. I'm so proud."
Zidane's message had been concise: "Keep a clear head. Unleash the power in your legs. Tomorrow, go write history."
Mbappé's voicemail had been delivered at machine-gun pace: "Julien! Julien! You HAVE to score tomorrow! HAVE to win! I bet my teammates you'd score and we'd win and if you don't I'll lose and they'll never let me hear the end of it!
You're my idol—you can't let me lose a week's allowance! Also also also, can you save me a signed jersey? It's definitely not for me, it's for Ethan, he asked, but okay maybe it's a little bit for me too. Good luck! Win! Score! Be amazing!"
Giroud had called too, his voice was warm and teasing: "Hey, future champion—I know Montpellier's backline well. They're terrified of pace, scared of runners in behind. Run them into the ground. Make them suffer. After you win, you're buying dinner at the next national team camp."
And many others.
Blanc, offering tactical advice about Montpellier's defensive shape.
Deschamps, reminding him to stay composed in big moments.
Varane, joking that Julien was making the rest of them look bad.
Former teammates from youth levels. Coaches from his academy days. Even players he'd competed against, offering respect and encouragement.
Julien read through every message twice, absorbing them, feeling the weight of all these relationships, all these people who believed in him. Then he silenced his phone and placed it face-down on the desk, cutting himself off from the world's noise.
Outside, the Mediterranean night tide murmured distantly. He breathed deeply, letting all the blessings and expectations settle somewhere deep in his chest where they could fuel him rather than burden him.
Lying in bed, he imagined how he'd celebrate. What goal celebration he'd use—something spontaneous, or something planned? Should he run to the corner flag, arms spread? Should he slide on his knees, letting the emotion pour out?
What he'd say to the fans afterward—would he be able to speak at all, or would the tears come first?
His mind played through scenarios.
Slowly, as the city's sounds faded into the quiet hours before dawn, he drifted into deep sleep.
The next day, Bastia became the absolute center of French attention.
Countless eyes were fixed on this single point on the map.
On match day, Stade Armand-Cesari was no longer merely a sports venue.
It had transformed into the beating blue heart of Corsica itself, pulsing with generations of longing.
By afternoon—still hours before the kickoff—every street leading to the stadium had been swallowed by surging human tides.
Tens of thousands of fans draped in Bastia's blue war colors moved like pilgrims toward a sacred shrine.
Flags, scarves, and face paint bearing the club crest formed a flowing ocean. Passionate songs rose from all directions ultimately merging into a deafening unified chorus that echoed through narrow streets and open squares endlessly.
Around the stadium perimeter, the scene grew even more spectacular, more intense, almost frightening in its passion.
Members of the ultras group "Ultras Bastia" had claimed prime positions hours earlier. They hammered out thunderous drum rhythms, conducting the crowd through wave after wave of coordinated chants with the precision of an orchestra.
Modoso orchestrated everything, standing on a platform, arms raised, directing the chaos into coherence. He was electric with excitement, his voice was hoarse from shouting commands, but his energy never weakened.
Everything he'd dreamed of had manifested into reality—the TIFO they'd built, the songs they'd composed, the moment they'd imagined during all those dark years was now blazing into existence.
Massive clouds of blue smoke periodically erupted toward sky from flares and smoke bombs, shrouding the entire area in dreamlike color. The air carried a unique scent—acrid gunpowder mixed with salt-heavy sea breeze, sweat and beer and anticipation, a smell that would forever mean this day.
The match hadn't started. Bastia hadn't won the title yet.
But they were already drowning in this atmosphere.
Helplessly, gloriously drowning in the best possible way.
Roadside vendors sold scarves and memorabilia to endless streams of customers.
Bertrand simply wheeled his wine barrels into the street, generously offering drinks to passersby.
[AN: {Frère=bro}]
"Today, everyone's frère! Today, we celebrate only victory!" He raised his glass and roared, his face radiating the same zeal captured in his father's old photograph.
Each glass of pastis was filled with someone's football memories.
Everywhere, entire families participated across three and four generations. Grandfathers pointed toward the stadium, telling grandchildren about a hundred and eight years of history—about relegations and near-bankruptcies, about the 1978 UEFA Cup final, about seasons of struggle and small victories.
Fathers hoisted children onto their shoulders so the young ones could see over the blue ocean of supporters, hear the roar, remember this forever. Couples reminisced about watching matches together when they were dating, about away trips to hostile cities.
Small children, overwhelmed, gazed at scenes they found merely "a bit lively," completely unaware they might be witnessing Bastia's golden age—something they'd tell their own grandchildren about, something they'd never see again in their lifetimes.
This was the peak. Everything after would be measured against this.
All of it.
The air saturated with an intoxicating mixture of tension, pride, and infinite anticipation.
The aftertaste lingered on tongues and in lungs.
In the distance, Montpellier fans in green appeared like scattered leaves on a boat, cautiously navigating through the blue torrent. Occasionally, they passed Bastia fans, and the groups exchanged glances filled with competitive edge yet mutual respect.
As kickoff approached, the human streams converged into an unstoppable flood, slowly passing through security gates and pouring into the temple where history would be made.
In this moment, the entire city had only one heartbeat, one name, one prayer—
Bastia.
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