Bonucci moved to block Julien head-on. Chiellini was chasing from behind. Even Montolivo, tracking back, was charging toward Julien.
It wasn't just French fans whose hearts were entirely with Julien, the Italians were getting nervous too.
Buffon was staring intently at Julien's footwork.
A touch—
Bonucci's tackle missed.
Another cut, a push, and the ball went through Bonucci's wide-open legs after his failed tackle.
Julien used Bonucci for leverage to quickly get past.
Buffon was already coming out.
Bonucci grabbed Julien's shirt and stuck his leg out in front of him again, trying to stop him.
Julien's feet moved with extrely high frequency. He avoided Bonucci's leg but still got clipped on the foot.
Julien was tripped.
Bonucci felt Julien going down and imdiately let go of his shirt.
He knew De Rocca was trying to win a penalty!
Julien went down awkwardly. At just over six feet tall, his high center of gravity made it difficult to get back up after falling.
But Buffon was already out!
"De Rocca!"
French fans felt their hearts seized as if by a giant fist, involuntarily holding their breath.
No one cared about the ti showing 91:28 on the scoreboard anymore.
All the fans' attention was entirely on De Rocca.
Buffon eyed the ball and dove toward it.
But Julien, while falling, pushed himself up with his hand and, in this extrely awkward position, flicked the ball with his left foot.
Buffon instantly realized sothing was wrong!
But he had already committed to the dive and couldn't stop his body. After flicking the ball away, Julien pushed himself up, half-rising.
Before Barzagli could slide in, he stumbled two steps and casually pushed with his left foot.
The football carrying France's hopes crossed the goal line!
Even though Barzagli sprinted the entire way and slid to knock the ball out of the net, the ball had already gone in!
BOOM!!
The mont the ball hit the net, all French fans felt a thunderous roar in their heads, like lightning splitting the sky!
A surge of hot blood rushed straight to their heads! Their scalps tingled!
An equalizer! De Rocca's equalizer!!
"ROAR!!" At this mont, they had no words in their minds, only the purest roar.
The most intense roar! Using every ounce of strength they had!
Only this way could they release all the emotions that had built up throughout the match. Only this way could they feel so relief.
BOOM!!
The Olympic Stadium in Kiev exploded! The roar shot straight into the night sky!
Julien, seeing the goal, felt his blood boiling throughout his body. He pushed himself up from the ground.
He heard the referee's whistle and saw his signal.
"Goal!"
"C'est moi!!"
"C'est moi!!!"
Julien roared as he charged toward the Bastia fans' section. During his sprint, he pulled off his jersey and threw it aside.
His eyes had also beco humid. He pumped his fists in celebration with all his might, shouting "C'est moi!!" at the top of his lungs.
His teammates roared as they rushed over and surrounded Julien. "De Rocca!"
The Bastia fans at this mont shouted "De Rocca!!!" with all their might.
Even though their voices were severely hoarse, they scread regardless, pumping their fists with abandon.
The white "De Rocca" banners flickered like flas in the stands at this mont!
Burning with passion!!
"GOAL! GOAL! GOAL!!! De Rocca!!! DE ROCCA scores in the ninety-second minute!! Incredible! Simply incredible!! He's beco France's hero! He's the Napoleon from Corsica! He's given France hope to continue advancing!! Deeee RoccccccccAAA!!"
Crash! Smash!!
Along with the exaggerated voice of the TF1 comntator from the TV, the Sunset Coffee Tavern was instantly filled with the sound of glasses smashing on the floor.
The aroma of pastis filled the entire tavern!
Everyone went crazy! Including Bertrand, who joined in the madness. No one cared about the ss on the floor, they just needed to release the emotions they'd suppressed all match—
"De Rocca!!"
"He's a god!! Bastia's god! France's god!!"
"De Rocca!! After this match, he's France's key player!! The French Empire's star has made his grand entrance!!!"
Smack, smack!
So fans even rushed to the back room and slapped the soundly sleeping Martin several tis. "Damn it, Martin! Wake up! We're level! We're level!! We haven't lost!!!"
Martin's eyes flew open. "What?! We won?! We won!!!"
He instantly rolled out of bed, throwing his arms up. "Long live France!!"
"Viva la FRANCE!!"
At the Olympic Stadium in Kiev, fans cheered wildly, shouting De Rocca's na.
They hadn't won, but they hadn't lost either, hadn't gone ho. Their excitent was more about finding an outlet for the emotions they'd suppressed all match.
The fans in the stands felt this way, and so did Blanc on the sideline.
The mont he saw the referee signal the goal was good, he pumped his fists vigorously, shouting De Rocca's na and embracing his coaching staff.
In that instant, everyone reacted the sa way, there was pure celebration.
Mbappé hugged Ethan and celebrated wildly. "Yes, Ethan, you were right! We're definitely going to win! We have to believe in De Rocca! He scored! He scored again! This is his third goal of the Euros! He has a real chance at the Golden Boot! Yes, I should be like you and believe in him, believe in France. Oh, Ethan, we're going to win!"
Ethan usually only listened to his brother's last sentence and ignore everything else, also repeated it, "Yes, Kylian, we're going to win."
De Rocca had already been completely surrounded by French players and was no longer visible. But his image had already been etched into the heart of every French person at that mont.
Zidane, Deschamps, Le Graët, and others all stood to applaud De Rocca.
They embraced each other, all smiling. "This goal is the hope for this match, and the hope for France."
Hell was only a minute away from France. But De Rocca used that minute to bring France back to the world of the living.
They still had a chance!
The shock among the French was accompanied by Italian silence.
There had been only about ten-plus seconds left! They were about to win!
But sohow, De Rocca, stumbling and losing his balance, had managed to control the ball all the way and score!
The Italians held their heads, finding it incomprehensible.
Why?
"Cazzo" could be heard rising and falling throughout the stands.
"Cazzo!!"
Prandelli cursed angrily on the sideline, constantly swinging his fists to vent his fury. He never could have imagined—they were about to win!
But they'd been equalized!
Going into extra ti would bring more variables!
The Italian players also looked disappointed. They were still in shock.
How had De Rocca managed to score by himself?
Chiellini and Bonucci exchanged bitter smiles, they'd been nutgged by De Rocca.
Pirlo, however, remained composed. He clapped and shouted, "We still have the advantage! Work hard in extra ti!"
After all, he was soone who had experienced big occasions. Pirlo didn't think being equalized was anything special.
He had once said, "After the defeat in Istanbul, I considered retirent because the 2005 Champions League final loss made everything seem aningless.
After the match, we were like torture victims in the dressing room. We couldn't speak, couldn't move, we had been completely destroyed ntally by our opponents. It was a serious injury to us, and it beca harder to bear as ti went on.
Insomnia, anger, depression, emptiness, all these emotions ca together. You could say we all suffered from a new disease: Istanbul Syndro.
This devastating blow made no longer feel like a player, and worse, made no longer feel like a man."
And now, they had just been equalized. There was still extra ti!
As Pirlo walked toward the center circle, he glanced back at De Rocca, who was putting his jersey back on while receiving a yellow card from the referee.
He rembered Marotta's words: "That's a player who could change Juventus."
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