Emperor of Football: Julien De Rocca Chapter 292: Chapter-292 The Letter

Julien listened to the sounds of children playing outside his window, and the whispered conversations of his family mbers outside his bedroom.

His fingers gradually ca alive on the keyboard—

[I want to tell you about my story.

You might hear or read about my story from various places—so true, so half-true, and so pure fabrication.

So, I want to tell you my story myself. Not about talent, not about matches, just an 18-year-old adult reflecting on his past.

When I was four, I first saw a black and white "football" stitched together from plastic and leather—let's call it a football, though it was really just an irregular sphere that resembled one.

My first impression of football was profound. It wasn't just a mory, because mories are often fuzzy, but this was different—it was warm, vivid, like a dream.

My brother Réné told how to play this ga—get past everyone, kick the ball into the goal. That simple.

Yes, simple rules, so simple that even four-year-old could understand.

When I took my first kick at the football, I could feel a kind of vitality from that irregular black and white sphere. And so from that day on, my story with football began.

In Sarcelles, football was the most popular of the few collective activities available to children. The second was picking through garbage.

The Wall Court—a gravel field converted from Sarcelles' garbage dump—was packed with people every day. Players, spectators, everyone comnting on every person who kicked the ball. "Oh, he's not bad at all." That was the evaluation I received.

My life changed because of this ball.

What followed beca ordinary—going to school, playing football, then joining the semi-professional team "Saint-Denis Espoir" for formal training, and then being selected as a player for Clairefontaine.

But during this ordinary journey, I changed.

From a child filled with pure love for football, I beca a volatile, explosive danger.

I would hit people just because soone said I played badly. I would curse at people just because they didn't pass the ball. And I would beco anxious, especially when I didn't score, didn't dribble past anyone, didn't win the match.

I was like a baby who never grew up, needing unconditional satisfaction from the outside world before I would stop crying.

I call this being a "giant baby."

But it seed God had favored enough, football was like part of my foot. I could easily make it move with my thoughts. So, I went from Clairefontaine to Lille, and from Lille to the Chelsea that so many dream of.

I was even promoted to Chelsea's first team when I was 16. Although I didn't play, this story seed to be announcing to the world:

"Hey, listen, I've got a story of early fa here. Want to hear it?"

But the world chose to refuse.

It seed not interested.

Chelsea beca the beginning of my downfall.

I had a conflict with captain Terry. I thought he was like one of those old-fashioned middle-aged n, full of lectures, telling what I should and shouldn't do. We almost got into a fight. Of course, if not for Drogba breaking it up, I would most likely have been the one getting beaten.

Because of this conflict, tabloid dia said Drogba told , "Hey, good thing you're not married, or you and Terry would have a hat-trick of problems."

I want to say this isn't true, it's complete fabrication.

After leaving Chelsea, I returned to France, but by then there was no football left in my heart. I thought I was a failure, a complete and utter failure.

Football had abandoned .

I began neglecting training, spending my ti with bad friends. We would discuss which girl had the most beautiful buttocks, which girl was easier to sleep with. We even discussed trying "leaf"—you know, the thing that ends a football career.

When training couldn't keep up, my body gradually couldn't support high-intensity matches. I got injured, adductor muscle.

I grew to hate football more and more.

Until on my 17th birthday, soone said to , "Hey, let's do sothing exciting."

We robbed a perfu shop.

That day.

That was the lowest point of my life, but looking back now, I think it was the beginning of my rebirth. Everything stemd from a hazy dream I had every night in prison—]

When Julien wrote to this point, he suddenly stopped.

How should he continue writing? If the previous part was a summary of "Julien," then what about the rest?

Perhaps this was truly his life.

He deliberated, omitting all the past scenes, simplifying everything, leaving blank spaces.

[It seed like my life, yet also seed like soone else's life.

In the dream, I had no talent for playing football, none at all. The ball would always slip away from my feet like a living thing, yet I still chased after it, never tiring.

Even without a single goal, without a single attack, as long as I was on the field, I felt my blood boiling, and I always looked forward to the next match.

The love for football in that dream was profoundly deep.

If I could just keep running, that would be a good ending.

But then, in a pickup ga on a cold windy day, when I saw an opportunity and stretched out my foot, I seed to hear a "crack."

It wasn't a sound from the dream; it was real breaking.

The doctor's words were brief: "Torn ligant. You can't play anymore."

White plaster wrapped around my foot, and wrapped away sothing else, perhaps that dream of running despite having no talent.

When I leaned against the chain-link fence beside the field.

Those running figures inside were only a few ters away, yet felt like a lifeti apart. The football rolled past the grass in front of . The words stuck in my throat ca out wrong, becoming cheers for others.

In the dream, I never had a chance to touch professional football. God didn't favor that ""—didn't even want to let keep running.

The white sideline was blindingly bright.

Like a scalpel, cutting and my football dream apart—on one side, the shadows still running; on the other, standing outside the chain-link fence.

Separated by a fence, separated by an entire world.

During that month at Fleury-Mérogis youth prison, I had this dream, unable to distinguish reality from illusion.

But when I woke up again.

What I saw was my parents, tears streaming down their faces, calling my na.

Yes, I was still Julien De Rocca. I was still the Julien who could have achieved sothing, but stopped abruptly.

When I walked out of the youth prison that day and looked up at the sky, what I felt wasn't freedom, but regret—regret for my past self, for recklessly squandering my talent.

So, I decided to change.

Changing soone who hadn't trained seriously for three or four years was difficult, but every ti I thought of that dream in prison, I understood—I was afraid.

Fortunately, I was still young.

I slowly recovered my lost talent.

When I had a good match with the Bastia youth team, Bastia's sporting director Mr. Chataignier imdiately found . "Hey, kid, go to the first team. That's your stage."

So, I welcod my first professional match appearance—the Coupe de France.

I still rember what happened. My goal helped the team defeat Valenciennes, a Ligue 2 team defeating a Ligue 1 team.

You all know the rest of the story. We won the Coupe de France title and the Ligue 2 championship. We returned to Ligue 1.

The mont we lifted the championship trophy; I had an incredibly dreamlike feeling.

I had really won a title.

Many other things happened during that Ligue 2 season. I beca team captain. Stade Armand Cesari chanted my na. I even received a call from Blanc, who told , "Are you interested in the Euro project?"

In that mont, I heard the sound of dreams coming true.

I think any French kid who plays football yearns to wear that blue shirt, to go to the Euros, to the World Cup, to be like Zidane, Blanc, Deschamps, to bring back championship trophies for France.

I had that opportunity.

But we fell in the semifinals.

We failed.

That night, Zidane told I was still young, that I would definitely bring back a championship for France in the future.

But how I wished I could have brought back a championship for France that sumr.

In that bitter sumr.

I decided to stay at Bastia.

And I welcod new companions: Kevin, N'Golo, Rolu, Sadio, Jonathan, and all the teammates who ca for the sa dream.

We wanted the championship.

After defeating Reims, I said in the locker room, "Soone will be champions, why can't it be us?"

I still think that way.

Perhaps we'll fail along the way. Perhaps we'll end up with nothing. But this is a goal, a goal that's not out of reach.

Like now: we've advanced in the Europa League, and we're first in Ligue 1 at the halfway point.

I don't know how this season will ultimately end, but in all of 2012, I was perfect, and Bastia was perfect.

We created so much history together. Every ti the blue flags waved; our blood would boil.

I think...

I will never stop—for my past, for that illusory dream, for Bastia, for France, and for each and every one of you.]

Julien stopped.

This personal letter essentially ended here. There wasn't much about matches, just as he'd written at the beginning, nothing to do with competition.

He organized it, carefully checking and revising so paragraphs and phrasing.

As he wrote, he added several hundred more words.

Finally, Julien sent the docunt to the editor's email at Bastia Daily.

When he'd contacted the editor earlier, saying he wouldn't do an interview but would use a personal letter instead, they told him that as long as he submitted it by 7 PM on the 24th, it would be published on the morning of the 25th.

After completing this final task, Julien put away his laptop.

He walked out of his bedroom, ready to officially enjoy his Christmas holiday.

His family had already prepared various ingredients for tonight's Christmas Eve dinner.

This was the absolute highlight of Christmas!

Its importance far exceeded Christmas Day itself. Christmas Eve dinner held a place in French hearts completely comparable to the Chinese New Year's Eve reunion dinner.

Every household would start preparing early, then enjoy an extrely rich, long, and exquisite dinner, often lasting several hours until after midnight.

Because at midnight, they still needed to attend midnight Mass.

Although the proportion of young French people who practiced religion was gradually declining, this had beco an activity in itself.

That evening.

The family's living room had been completely transford. The furniture had been rearranged to make space for an extended table, covered with a perfect white cloth. Candles of varying heights created a warm, flickering glow. The Christmas tree stood in the corner, its lights twinkling like captured stars.

Julien and his siblings worked together to set the table: his sister Clénce laying out the best cutlery they owned (a set their mother had inherited from her own mother), his brother Léonce carefully positioning wine glasses, his younger siblings arguing over the correct way to fold napkins.

"Like this!" Loup insisted, demonstrating a complicated triangular fold.

"That's stupid," Élodie countered. "Napkins should be simple and elegant, not origami projects."

"Children," their mother called from the kitchen, "I don't care if the napkins are folded into paper airplanes, just get them on the table!"

Pierre erged from the kitchen carrying a tray filled with oysters on a bed of ice, their shells were gleaming in the candlelight. Behind him, their mother appeared with plates of foie gras, smoked salmon arranged in delicate rosettes, prawns still steaming slightly, and a terrine that had taken her most of the day to prepare.

The appetizers alone would have constituted a full al in most households, but this was Christmas Eve, le Réveillon, the most important dinner of the French year. A al that wasn't just about food, but about family, tradition, and the passage of another year together.

"And the champagne!" Pierre announced, producing a bottle that Julien suspected had cost more than his father would ever admit.

"Though so of us," He added with a pointed look at Julien and the younger children, "will be sticking to sparkling apple juice."

"Papa, I'm seventeen," Réné protested. "In two months, I'll be eighteen. Surely one glass—"

"In two months, perhaps," Pierre said firmly. "Tonight, you drink with your younger siblings."

Réné opened his mouth to argue further, caught his mother's warning look, and wisely dwindled.

Julien caught his brother's eye and grinned. "Don't worry. You're not missing much. I've had champagne, and honestly, the apple juice is better."

This was a lie, champagne was delicious but it made Réné feel better, which was the point.

Though Julien did not drink because he had a dietary plan that needed strict adherence even during holidays. Although Fabreattu wouldn't say anything about it, this was Julien's own commitnt.

They all took their places around the table, the family arranged in no particular order of age or importance, just finding seats and settling in.

Pierre stood at the head of the table, champagne glass raised. For a mont, he seed at a loss for words, his throat was working as he looked around at his wife and children.

Then, in typical De Rocca fashion, he kept it simple.

"To family," He said. "Cheers!"

"Cheers!" everyone echoed, glasses clinking together in a symphony of crystal and glass.

The dinner officially began.

Julien reached for an oyster, squeezing lemon over it and lifting the shell to his lips. The taste of the sea flooded his mouth—cold, briny, with that peculiar sweet aftertaste that made oysters either beloved or despised with no middle ground.

He'd grown to love them over the years, though he could rember being disgusted by them as a child.

Around the table, conversation flowed as freely as the champagne (or apple juice, in the case of the younger group). Stories from the past year were shared, his sister Clénce's promotion at work, Léonce's acceptance into a prestigious photography program, Loup's excellent grades despite his teachers predicting he'd be a troublemaker.

But inevitably, the conversation turned to Julien.

"Julien, where will you go next season? I saw the dia saying that after this season ends, you must leave Bastia, or Bastia will completely collapse," His brother Réné asked.

At ho, Julien naturally wouldn't hide anything. He clearly said his thoughts.

"Probably," he admitted. "The club hasn't made a final decision, but I think it'll probably be England."

"Oh, the Premier League!" Réné's eyes lit up. "That's incredible! But..." his expression sobered, "their physical play might be pretty fierce. You need to be careful."

"Don't worry," Loup piped up with the supre confidence of a fourteen-year-old. "I guarantee those Premier League bruisers won't even touch the hem of Julien's shirt."

"I heard they break legs all the ti there," Réné continued. "I think maybe Spain would be better—they emphasize technique. Julien would be more suited there."

Their mother nodded ardently, spearing a prawn with her fork. "Yes, Spain would be lovely. England's weather is terrible, and don't even get started on the food. It would be great if you could go to Barcelona, there's sunshine, beaches, beautiful architecture, wonderful cuisine..."

"Oh God, don't talk to about England!" Élodie interrupted dramatically, setting down her glass. "I went to Liverpool once for a school trip—it was a nightmare! Julien, why do you want to go there?

That British weather is like a personal insult. You have to carry an umbrella everywhere, and even then you're not safe. One day takes you through all four seasons! It's overcast by default, and when the sun actually shows up, everyone acts like it's the second coming and imdiately strips down to sunbathe in parks."

She was warming to her the now, waving her fork for emphasis. "And the food! My God, the food! Fish and chips are fine when they're fresh and hot, but the mont they cool down it's like eating cardboard soaked in grease.

They boil vegetables until they're just... mush. No color, no texture, no flavor. And the desserts! Everything is so sweet your teeth ache just looking at it. There was this pie—stargazy pie, they called it with sardine heads sticking out of the crust, just staring at you while you're supposed to eat. I had nightmares!"

The whole table burst into laughter. Élodie's dramatic rants were a family tradition.

"And don't even get started on beans for breakfast," she continued. "Beans! On toast! In the morning! Who decided that was a good idea? Thank God for French cuisine, or I definitely would have died in England!"

"All right, all right," Julien said, still laughing. "I get it. England is a culinary wasteland and teorological disaster zone. I'll pack extra sweaters and a lifeti supply of French cheese."

The brothers cared more about football, while the mother and sisters cared more about living conditions.

Julien didn't explain much because he couldn't get a word in.

Everyone chatted all evening.

About everything.

They continuously exchanged experiences from the past year.

Similarly, they ate all evening—appetizers followed by main courses, cheese plates before dessert, desserts, and more.

Finally, everyone had a satisfying dinner.

Their mother and others cleared the table.

Pierre and Julien stood on the balcony, looking out at the thousands of lights.

Pierre asked, "So you'd already decided to go to England, right? Otherwise, you wouldn't have asked to make those preparations in England."

________________________________________________________

Check out my patreon where you can read more chapters:

patreon/LorianFiction

Thanks for your support!