The clock ticked into the final stretch of the match.
After watching Jesús make his substitution, Hadzibegic responded with changes of his own, withdrawing two players—Palmieri and Angoula.
Both veterans had burned every last ember of energy tonight.
On ca Clauss and Mané in their place.
In Hadzibegic eyes, these were Bastia's future. Though the match had essentially beco garbage ti, letting them soak in the atmosphere of a final would prove vital for their developnt.
As Palmieri and Angoula trudged off the pitch, the Bastia fans rose as one, applause fell down from the stands.
Particularly for Angoula.
His performances this season had been nothing short of warrior-like—a hardman forged in Muay Thai gyms who'd fought alongside the squad from the depths of the Championnat National all the way to Europa League glory.
His ceiling might not be the highest, but he'd established the team's floor, their defensive foundation. Gutted by Bale against Tottenham, yes—but he'd also delivered in countless crucial matches when they needed him most.
The returning Palmieri had been equally committed, shift after shift of honest work.
Bastia loved genius.
But they also cherished ordinary players who would bleed for the shirt.
"With both sides making their adjustnts," the comntator comnted, "the result of this match appears to be set in stone. Congratulations to Bastia—they stand just over ten minutes away from the first European trophy in their century-long history."
In the stands, Bastia supporters swayed and sang, their voices carrying on the Amsterdam evening breeze, floating across the North Sea, streaming southward until they rged with the songs rising from the Stade Armand Cesari back in Corsica.
"Through the years our voices ring
For the blue Bastia, island kings!
No fear in our hearts
Masters of the beautiful ga
Nothing's impossible when you wear our na!"
Every Bastia soul scattered across different locations but united in this singular mont celebrated together this night of impossibility made real.
The match entered its dying monts. Despite their strong lead, Bastia maintained control of the tempo.
They hadn't abandoned their attacking intent.
Mané even managed a promising cut-inside and shot that whistled narrowly wide, drawing fresh roars of excitent from the Bastia sections.
The fans could see it in him—the raw talent that justified his status as the sumr's marquee signing, the club's record transfer.
This was the future.
Perhaps he wouldn't reach Julien's heights, but he possessed everything needed to beco Bastia's next wing jewel.
Ti rushed forward.
Everyone watched the clock, waiting for the end.
But then—
In the 85th minute.
Julien received the ball with his back to goal just outside the penalty area on the right side, instantly encircled by lgarejo, Rodrigo, and Luisão pressing from three directions.
Rather than playing it safe with a backward pass, Julien flicked the ball sharply backward with his right foot while simultaneously spinning away from the pressure. He exploded through the gap beside lgarejo with pure explosive force, his body carving out space through sheer physical dominance!
This was raw, devastating power!
Strength and speed unified!
This was Julien wringing out the last reserves of his stamina, pushing himself to the limit.
Luisão imdiately recovered to block the cutting lane.
Julien feinted toward the byline as if to drive past him, but at the mont of contact he backheeled the ball with subli technique, finding Clauss—the substitute right-back who had bombed forward at full sprint.
Then Julien accelerated into the box.
Clauss read the mont instantly, delivering a whipped cross without hesitation.
The ball traced a low, venomous arc toward the front post of the six-yard box!
Julien had tid his run perfectly. He launched himself upward, attempting to power a header on goal.
But he couldn't quite make clean contact. The side of his forehead rely glanced the bottom of the ball, sending it spinning wildly off target, nowhere near the goal!
The mont he felt the awkward connection, Julien knew—his heading ability simply wasn't there. He'd completely mishit it.
However—
What appeared to be a botched header transford, through beautiful accident, into an exquisite flick-on toward the center!
The ball sailed over every defender between Julien and the middle of the box, dropping perfectly into the heart of the six-yard area.
Lukaku moved like a predator scenting blood. He shed his marker and rose majestically, body fully extended in mid-air, eting the ball with a thunderous header that crashed into the net!
6-0!
Lukaku turned away in ecstasy, sprinting toward Julien while pointing at him and laughing. "That assist was absolutely filthy!"
Julien spread his hands wide, his face breaking into a sheepish, almost guilty grin of pure relief.
He felt genuinely embarrassed, and began explaining, "I was trying to shoot! It ca off wrong."
De Bruyne charged in from behind, laughing maniacally as he grabbed Julien's head with both hands and ruffled his hair violently, roaring in his ear: "You bastard! An assist hat-trick?! Are you God?!"
Kanté erged from the celebrating mob, his face split by an uncharacteristically wide grin as he playfully punched Lukaku's chest. "Rolu! Six! Six! They're finished!"
Substitute players and staff poured off the bench, joining the pile of bodies in celebration!
At the center of it all, Lukaku locked his arm around Julien's neck and roared to everyone: "This guy says he mishit it! You believe that?! That was a back-of-the-head, eyes-in-the-back-of-his-skull genius pass!"
The group erupted in laughter and louder jeering.
Julien, trapped in the middle of his teammates, still wore that sheepish, brilliant smile. He finally gave up trying to explain and raised both arms high, accepting this beautiful misunderstanding.
Everyone wore matching grins.
Celebrating without restraint the trophy that was now within their grasp!
Watching this scene unfold, Julien felt an inexplicable emotion welling up inside. In this mont, tactics, scorelines, records—none of it mattered anymore.
What mattered was that this group of people had created and witnessed sothing incredible together.
At this mont, the comntator's voice trembled with shock, nearly breaking as he struggled to convey his disbelief:
"The ball is in! 6-0! Unbelievable! Inconceivable! This will be written in the history books! Bastia have created an unprecedented miracle! This 6-0 scoreline isn't just the biggest victory margin in a Europa League final since the competition's rebrand—this is the most dominant performance in the entire history of European competition finals!
Let's put this in perspective: in Europa League history, and its predecessor the UEFA Cup, even the aggregate score record across two-legged finals was only 6-1—Juventus over Borussia Dortmund in 1992/93!
And Bastia have scored six goals in a single 90-minute match! They've elevated both the goal-scoring and the sheer dominance of a final to a jaw-dropping, unprecedented level that may never be matched!
And at the absolute center of it all is Julien De Rocca!
A goal hat-trick!
An assist hat-trick!
Six goal contributions in a final! He's the first player in Europa League history to achieve a 'double hat-trick' in a final—in fact, he's the first in the entire history of European club competition finals!
Tonight, he's a walking record-breaking machine!
Look at the Benfica players—their eyes are hollow, their fighting spirit utterly destroyed.
This isn't a match. This is a complete, crushing, historic execution!
Hadzibegic team has left their opponents without a shred of dignity or hope.
They've announced the birth of a new king in the most brutal fashion imaginable, and they've ground a century-old giant's pride into the Amsterdam turf.
This is Bastia's night!
A night for France, for the island of Corsica!
Above all, this is Julien De Rocca's night!
Years from now, when people speak of the Europa League, when they rember finals, they will think of this scoreline, this night, this unstoppable phenonon of a striker!
The legend is forged, and history is made tonight!"
While Bastia's players celebrated without restraint, the two dugouts—and Benfica's entire contingent both on and off the pitch existed in a different dinsion. One side a volcanic eruption, the other a frozen graveyard.
Hadzibegic pumped his fists wildly toward the Bastia sections in the stands, arms raised high, hollering with joy.
The old man seed to have rediscovered the passion of his playing days.
His face flushed crimson, breathing rapid and shallow.
Pure exhilaration!
Chataigner couldn't contain himself either, bursting from the tunnel to embrace the substitutes before racing to Hadzibegic, the two n roaring wordlessly, channeled pure emotion through their embrace.
No specific words were needed.
This mont demanded only the release of feeling!
Everyone understood what this trophy ant for a club from a small diterranean island.
Years ago, Bastia had possessed the prodigious talent of Papi, only to fall agonizingly short.
But this ti—
They had the even greater genius of Julien!
At last, completion.
Beside them, Jesús remained seated, motionless.
One more goal, one fewer—it made no difference. This was Benfica's defeat, absolute and total.
He forced himself to process the reality, to accept this fact.
On the pitch, Benfica's players stood with hollow eyes, rooted to the spot as if even breathing had beco a chanical reflex.
The blow was too devastating.
So stood with hands on hips, heads bowed low, staring blankly at the grass beneath their boots as if seeking answers there.
Others gazed numbly toward the celebrating Bastia players, faces devoid of expression, nothing but empty blankness.
Conceding the sixth goal provoked not even a shoulder twitch compared to the fifth.
One man up or one man down, five goals or six—it had all ceased to matter.
They were simply waiting passively for the final whistle, for this public execution to end.
In the stands, the Benfica sections sat silent as a bombed-out ruin.
The magnitude of their humiliation transcended what sorrow could express.
People slumped in their seats, hunched over or leaning back with eyes closed, like prisoners awaiting sentence.
Flags and scarves lay abandoned on the ground, unclaid.
Occasionally a child tugged at a parent's sleeve with a question, receiving only an empty stare and a numb shake of the head.
Their faith had been utterly shattered during these 90 minutes.
anwhile, from Amsterdam to Corsica, every Bastia supporter had been ignited into an unprecedented, almost religious united frenzy!
The stadium erupted in celebration.
Fans wept openly while screaming toward the pitch: "A double hat-trick! My God!!"
The Ultra hardcore section had completely lost their minds!
They hurled scarves and even their own shirts into the air, catching them and throwing them up again in endless cycles.
A euphoric ocean of blue!
Back in Corsica at the Stade Armand Cesari, the celebration took on an even more primal quality. The decibel level was staggering. Beer sprayed like fountains from every corner of the stands, forming golden, dreamlike arcs under the floodlights.
A father hoisted his young son above his head, shouting at the giant screen through tears: "Look! Son! That's our hero! Bastia's hero!"
Soon, the entire stadium began mimicking Julien's signature celebration—arms spread wide, chest out, chin raised high, accepting worship!
Every supporter was moving in unison!
The most moving scene unfolded in the south stand: a group of elderly supporters helped each other climb onto their seats, holding in the air with trembling hands an enormous banner that read simply: "1978—2013: Bastia are European Champions!"
In this mont, 35 years of unfulfilled longing had finally been erased.
________________________________________________________
Check out my patreon where you can read more chapters:
patreon/LorianFiction
Thanks for your support!
User Comments
0 comments from readers