Emperor of Football: Julien De Rocca

"Julien!"

The thunderous chant erupted from the away section like a Mediterranean storm breaking against the cliffs of Corsica. Bastia fans who had traveled to this away match roared his name with all their might when they saw Julien take the field with the team.

The away section was packed to full capacity. who had traveled to this away match roared his name with all their might when they saw Julien take the field with the team.

The economics of passion had worked against them: ferry rides from Corsica to mainland France, overnight stays in cramped hotels, expensive match tickets, all to watch a team that more often disappointed.

For people from Corsica, it was actually more convenient to go to Italy to watch a Serie A match than to travel within France. So naturally, not many fans were willing to spend so much money to watch a lackluster game.

But everything had changed with the arrival of one name: Julien De Rocca.

The voices of two thousand Bastia fans tore open a blue Bastia-colored gap in the sea of red and yellow that filled the Bollaert stadium.

Hadzibegic stood on the sideline, his hands clasped behind his back as he watched Julien receive this hero's welcome. His heart swelled with pride, yet a melancholy shadow appeared on his face.

Perhaps Julien would become the most brilliant player of his coaching career, yet he couldn't be a player who would stay under his guidance for long.

Julien wouldn't belong to Bastia.

Bastia was just the launching pad for a rocket destined for the stars.

The small island of Corsica couldn't contain Napoleon's ambitions—the European continent had been his stage. History was perhaps repeating itself, and Hadzibegic was both privileged and cursed to be its witness.

Still, he supported Châtaigner's audacious plan. This was his gamble too, his chance to be remembered.

Tweet!

The referee's sharp whistle pierced the atmosphere, and the second half started.

Bastia hadn't changed their approach with Julien's introduction; they still chose the most economical style of play for an away match—defensive counterattacking.

Jean Garcia, Lens's experienced manager, chose not to press high immediately. Being one goal down with the second half just beginning, it wasn't yet time for desperate measures.

Besides, Garcia was aware of the reputation that had been building around the young Corsican. Every Ligue 2 coaching staff had video compilations of De Rocca's highlights.

When you isolated his dribbling sequences and watched them in slow motion, it was impossible not to think of that Brazilian magician who had once graced the Parc des Princes. Ronaldinho's ghost seemed to dance through the teenager's footwork—the same unpredictable feints, the same audacious flicks, the same ability to make defenders look like they were moving through treacle.

Such a player naturally attracted special attention, and Garcia had briefed his team accordingly.

Gasp!

The collective intake of breath from spectators jolted Garcia from his tactical contemplation. His eyes snapped to the pitch just as the referee raised a yellow card high above his head, pointing a finger at Lens's number seven, Ben Saada.

Garcia's instincts kicked in before his brain could process what had happened. He leaped from the bench, his arms windmilling in protest as he appealed to the fourth official. "How is that a yellow card?! That's not fair! The boy barely touched him!"

His assistant coach quickly grabbed Garcia's arm and pulled him back toward the bench. "Calm down, Jean," He whispered urgently in his ear. "That was a red card tackle. Yellow is lucky—very lucky."

Garcia's expression didn't change as he sat back onto the bench, but inside, his stomach churned. He reached for his water bottle with slightly trembling hands and took a long sip to calm his nerves.

"What exactly happened out there?" He asked quietly.

Meanwhile, miles away in the Sunset Café bar in Bastia, the reaction was volcanic.

The television replay was clear, shown from three different angles in slow motion.

Ben Saada had launched himself through the air like a missile, his studs leading, his body horizontal to the ground.

Julien had been in possession, his head up, looking for a passing option, when the former Bastia striker came flying in from the side. The tackle was nowhere near the ball—it was aimed directly at Julien's leg, a potentially career-ending assault disguised as a football challenge.

Only Julien's lightning-quick reflexes had saved him from serious injury. At the last possible moment, he had twisted his body and lifted his leg, causing Ben Saada to crash into the turf in a sliding mess of dirt.

"Putain de merde!" roared one fan, his face turning purple with rage. "Was that football or attempted murder?! And that doesn't get a red card?"

"Even that German bastard Kahn would blush at that flying tackle!" shouted another, reference to the notorious Bayern Munich goalkeeper known for his aggressive challenges.

"Julien is only seventeen!" shouted a third voice. "His shinbone isn't made of steel, you idiot!"

The Bastia fans were genuinely furious. How could anyone tackle like that?!

The key point was that this was a former Bastia player.

Someone in the corner stood on a chair, an unopened bottle of Pietra beer raised high above his head to attract attention. The bar fell silent as he spoke.

"Ben Saada—remember that name, the guy who betrayed Bastia!" He shouted. "We invented this in 1789, and now we desperately need to revisit history."

Crack!

With precision, the fan placed the beer bottle on the edge of the wooden table, then struck the overhanging neck with a heavy glass, breaking it off cleanly. The bottle neck shattered, golden beer spilling everywhere, creating a foamy mess that nobody bothered to clean up.

Someone else joined in, shouting, "La guillotine!"

"Haha!"

The fans all burst into laughter, their displeasure with Ben Saada growing even stronger.

This was Julien—their future star, their golden boy.

Anyone who dared harm him would face the collective wrath of an entire island. This was just an away match with limited numbers—if this had been at the Stade Armand Cesari, Ben Saada would have experienced the full fury of the Corsican people.

But Bastia had representatives at the ground too.

On the pitch, Rothen immediately shoved Ben Saada to the ground with both hands. His face was twisted with anger as he stood over the fallen Ben Saada,: "You idiot, what are you doing?! Are you trying to cripple him?!"

Lens players quickly rushed over to help their teammate, forming a protective circle around Ben Saada.

 In moments of conflict on the pitch, there are only loyalties, no right or wrong. You help your teammates, period—even when they're in the wrong.

With players from both teams rushing in, the scene quickly fell into chaos. Shirts were grabbed, faces were shoved, and the referee lost control as around twenty men were in a heated confrontation that had nothing to do with football and everything to do with honor and protection.

The Ligue 2 commentator, trying to maintain his professional composure, had to acknowledge the obvious: "That tackle from Ben Saada was indeed somewhat unreasonable, and I think we can all understand the emotional response from the Bastia players."

His co-commentator, a former player himself, provided context that made the situation even more explosive: "And Ben Saada himself came through Bastia's youth system as a striker. After being promoted to Bastia's first team in 2002, he served the club faithfully for six years until 2008, when Bastia's financial crisis forced them to sell him to Ligue 1 club Nice for 1.5 million euros. His three years at Nice yielded little success, and last summer Nice didn't renew his contract, so he signed with Lens as a free agent."

"Traitor!"

"Traitor!"

The chant began slowly in the away section, but it quickly gained momentum until it became a deafening roar.

Soon, someone threw a smoke bomb, and thick blue smoke began to swirl across the pitch, obscuring the away section stands in a haze.

Then from somewhere in the chaotic blue cloud, someone threw a Lens team flag. But this wasn't just any flag—inside it was wrapped a day-old baguette, and on the flag itself, someone had used street-art spray paint to write in bold black letters: "Official partner of French proctology services."

Amidst this chaos, Julien was receiving medical attention on the sideline, surrounded by concerned team officials and medical staff.

"Do you feel anything here?" asked the team doctor, his hands probing his ankle and shin.

"Does it hurt when I press?" He continued, applying gentle pressure to various points on Julien's leg.

"Good, no problems for now, but Julien, you need to be careful out there," the doctor concluded, his expression serious. "That tackle could have ended your career before it really began."

Hadzibegic felt nothing about the chaotic scenes unfolding around him—his sole concern was whether his star player was injured. Only when he saw the team doctor signal that everything was fine did he allow himself to relax.

If he could have chosen, he would have preferred to substitute Julien off immediately.

This confrontation lasted a full three to four minutes before referees, coaching staff, and security managed to separate the players and restore some order.

The referee pulled out five yellow cards in succession, calling out names one by one like a schoolmaster disciplining unruly children.

The scene appeared to calm down, but from the players' expressions, you could sense that from this moment on, this would no longer be a simple match.

Julien stood on the sideline.

He could feel the change in atmosphere, and he silently added Ben Saada to his mental notebook of dirty players.

When it came to revenge, Julien had learned early that patience was overrated. He didn't like to wait for the next match, the next season, or the next opportunity. He preferred to settle scores immediately, on the same pitch where the offense had occurred.

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