Emperor of Football: Julien De Rocca

Bang!

Amid the thunderous cheers at Cesari Stadium, the sound of a water bottle hitting the grass went unnoticed by most. But it startled the players on Rennes' bench.

Antonetti had thrown the bottle to the ground, but still unsatisfied, he unleashed his fury on the players on the field:

"Apam!" His voice carried the venom of a man watching his carefully laid plans crumble. "Are you sleepwalking out there? When De Rocca went past you, you looked like a tourist admiring the Mediterranean sunset! Should I book you a hotel room while I'm at it?"

"Boyer! Your marking was so pathetic, even the sheep in the Corsican hills could have done better! At least they know how to block a path!"

His fury expanded to cover the entire team, his voice rising to compete with the crowd's celebrations:

"Do you know what that kid earns in a week? Pocket change compared to your salaries! But tonight, he's playing like Pelé reborn while you're performing like Sunday league rejects!"

The Rennes players absorbed the verbal assault in silence. They knew Antonetti's reputation—a man whose passion burned as hot as his temper. In Ligue 1, he was notorious for his post-match tirades: "If the referee needs glasses, tell him to visit an optician before he ruins another match!"

The local press had coined a phrase: "Antonetti's tactical philosophy—shout at the players, then shout at the referee."

There was even a legendary incident where he'd kicked a water bottle in frustration, accidentally striking a ball boy. The headlines had read: "Antonetti's Penalty Kick—Accuracy by Accident."

But this was different. Now, he was truly furious!

He was from Bastia and had been both a former Bastia player and coach. But that didn't mean he wanted to lose to Bastia!

As he'd said before the match, he wanted to be the one to end Bastia's French Cup journey. But now, they were the ones who had conceded first.

Instead, he was watching his expensive stars get schooled by a kid who probably earned less in a month than they spent on dinner.

So Antonetti was livid.

Even the television commentary, after praising De Rocca's goal picked up on the drama unfolding on the sideline. As the camera lingered on Antonetti's thunderous expression, the commentator observed dryly: "One wonders what colorful quotes Antonetti will provide the media after this performance."

High in the VIP boxes, the watching scouts leaned forward with renewed interest. Zidane's eyes never left the young striker, while Leonardo whispered something to his assistant. Elion scribbled notes furiously. They could see the talent in the young player.

But the most intriguing observer was thousands of miles away in London, where Arsène Wenger sat in his study, the glow of his television screen illuminating his face.

The spirited French youngster on his screen stirred something deep in his chest—a feeling he'd thought age had numbed.

Wenger had witnessed countless goals, celebrated innumerable victories, endured devastating defeats. He'd assumed himself immune to the simple magic of a single moment of brilliance.

Yet as De Rocca's celebration unfolded, memories flooded back. Monaco, decades ago. Another young French talent with fire in his belly and dreams in his eyes. Together, they had conquered England, crafted Arsenal's golden era, written their names in football history.

Unfortunately, time had turned his hair white and left that youngster with feelings no longer deep. Looking back at Highbury, all he could see were shadows of his former self.

Wenger couldn't help but wonder: in the final years of his coaching career, would there be another French youngster like this to join him in conquering the world?

Back at Cesari Stadium, Hadzibegic was experiencing his own moment of pure joy. He had abandoned his usual composed demeanor, pumping his fists and embracing anyone within reach.

Behind the bench, Châtaigner's laughter boomed across the sideline: "De Rocca! What a strike! What a player!"

Around his ears, the voices of Bastia fans echoed endlessly:

"De Rocca! Your name will echo through Cesari forever!"

"You've given us wings, boy! We're flying to the semifinals!"

"This is our year! The cup is calling our name!"

Countless words filled the air. While those closer might have been able to make out what the fans were actually shouting, Julien on the pitch couldn't hear anything specific.

Through the sea of celebrating faces, he spotted the Mbappé family. Julien raised his hand, acknowledging their presence with a smile t.

Mbappé was so excited his face had turned red.

"Allez Julien!" He shouted, his voice joining the chorus of thousands. In that moment, he was no different from any other fan in the stands.

Both teams returned to the center circle. The match continued.

But with the score changed, the rhythm began to shift as well. Rennes' attacks became more ferocious! However, they also left more opportunities for Bastia.

But desperation bred opportunity. Hadzibegic recognized the shift immediately, instructing David to stay alert for the counterattack that would surely come.

But his teammates couldn't keep up. Bastia had expended too much energy on defense, leaving them lacking in attack.

After his goal, Julien found himself marked with precision. Apam, stung by Antonetti's public humiliation, had attached himself to him like a second shadow.

But Julien didn't mind. Hadzibegic's tactical plan for this match hadn't been built around constant attacking, so it didn't matter whether he was being closely marked or not.

Bastia just needed to wait for counterattacking opportunities.

Missing one, two, or even four or five chances didn't matter—as long as they capitalized on one opportunity, it would be a success.

So Hadzibegic doubled down on defense, leaving only David and Julien to threaten on the break. The more frantically Rennes attacked, the more spaces they left behind, and the more frustrated they grew.

Bastia's players were particularly skilled at those subtle fouls, constantly disrupting Rennes' attacking rhythm and making them lose their composure.

Even when Rothen, with his veteran calculating wit, "accidentally" touched the ball as he passed by, causing it to roll a bit farther and delaying the opponent's restart, it was enough to infuriate Rennes midfielder Tait, who shoved Rothen hard.

Rothen had been waiting for exactly this moment.

"Ahhhhh!" His cry of anguish would have done credit to a Shakespearean tragedy. He crumpled to the turf, clutching his shoulder as if he'd been struck by lightning.

Tait threw his hands up in exasperation, appealing to the referee's common sense.

The referee warned Tait, "No more unnecessary actions, or I won't be lenient."

He also warned Rothen: "Get up. If you keep wasting time, I'll add it to stoppage time."

Rothen slowly rubbed his shoulder and got up with De Rocca's help.

As Rothen passed by De Rocca after getting up, he quietly said: Later, when you don't have a breakthrough opportunity, look for fouls, look for penalties, or just go down to waste time. Don't be too honest—many of us might not have the stamina to defend for the full ninety minutes."

Julien nodded slightly. For victory, when absolute strength was lacking, they had to rely on these small tactics within the rules.

The first half quickly came to an end.

The referee indeed gave a long stoppage time—a full four minutes, partly as a warning to Bastia.

Antonetti kept shaking his head. Time was slipping away as he shook it.

But even the threat of extra time couldn't stop Bastia's defensive time-wasting masterpiece. After defending with their lives for over forty minutes, even the strongest legs were beginning to buckle.

Antonetti paced the sideline like a caged predator, shaking his head.

Time was slipping away as he shook it.

Tweet!

The half-time whistle brought blessed relief to some, rising dread to others. Antonetti stalked toward the tunnel without a word, his silence was more ominous than any tirade.

The Rennes players followed like condemned men walking to the gallows. They knew their manager's reputation.

They could already imagine what awaited them in the dressing room—and they knew it would be far worse than anything they'd endured on the pitch.

________________________________________________________

Check out my patreon where you can read more chapters:

patreon.com/LorianFiction

Thanks for the support