Ti moved swiftly. September 5th arrived. The French national team departed all together for Georgia, located in the Caucasus region, for their away World Cup qualifier.
Georgia on the Black Sea's eastern shore was a gateway between Europe and Asia and was renowned for its ancient history, the gigantic Caucasus Mountains, and world-famous wine culture. The capital, Tbilisi, built along the banks of the Kura River, would serve as the stage for this match.
Georgian football carried distinct regional character. They weren't traditional European powerhouses with limited major tournant experience, but their style was defined by toughness, resilience, and intense physicality.
Georgian players generally possessed excellent athleticism and ferocious determination. At ho, backed by fans fierce support, they often exploded with surprising fighting spirit.
For France, determined to dominate, playing away here ant challenges beyond just the opponent, the environnt itself was hostile. The mountainous climate, fanatical local fans, and Georgia's inevitable low block paired with aggressive pressing would test their patience and ability to break down stubborn resistance.
Before departure, Deschamps repeatedly stressed that technical, possession-based football might struggle here. The team needed to prepare for a hard-fought battle. But as he said, no World Cup journey included easy matches.
France's charter landed at Tbilisi International Airport. Players checked into their hotel with staff assistance while Deschamps and Patrice Evra headed to the press conference.
Most questions were routine. Naturally, several focused on Julien.
One journalist asked: "Didier, De Rocca's Premier League start has been nothing short of sensational: five goals in two matches shocked Europe. How would you assess his form? Does this an he'll play an even more central role tomorrow?"
Deschamps leaned forward slightly, his tone firm. "Julien's form? I'd summarize it in one phrase: unparalleled.
More importantly, he's demonstrated the ability to decide matches, that's the fundantal difference between elite players and rely good ones. At Anfield, he proved it. Tomorrow at the Boris Paichadze Dinamo Arena, we'll need him to prove it again.
Or let be more explicit: Julien isn't just an important squad mber. He's our attacking fulcrum and captain. In crucial qualifiers like this, we need our best players stepping up to decide gas. Right now, Julien is Europe's most dangerous attacker."
The follow-up ca: "Does this an tactics will revolve around him?"
Deschamps nodded without hesitation. "Absolutely. Smart coaches put their best players in positions to maximize impact. We'll create space for Julien, design tactics around his strengths, all to fully unleash his attacking threat."
anwhile, Georgian head coach Kakha Ketsbaia said: "We must forget the 0-3 defeat in France last round. This is a new match. Perhaps we lack realistic qualification chances, but every ga demands our full effort."
Ketsbaia's words did little to inspire Georgian dia, whose coverage basically read:
"Lose by less,"
"Fight for a draw, hope for a small defeat."
Amid the dia noise, at Dinamo Tbilisi's training complex, sunset covered the aging facilities. After training ended, a group of twelve and thirteen-year-olds didn't head ho imdiately. Instead, they gathered excitedly around one figure.
At the center stood a slight but sharp-eyed boy, Khvicha Kvaratskhelia. He clutched his hands together, the coach's earlier words had set his heart racing.
A freckled teammate asked enviously, "Khvicha, tomorrow you're really going to be a ball boy? Right there on the sideline?"
Kvaratskhelia nodded vigorously, unable to contain his excitent. "Yes! Coach said I'm assigned to the French team's side!"
"Holy crap! You'll see Julien De Rocca! In person!" Another taller boy exclaid, sparking commotion among the group.
For these Georgian football youths, the French prodigy who'd just stord the Premier League seed like a being from another planet.
Kvaratskhelia said nothing, but his eyes shone intensely. In his backpack was a wrinkled newspaper clipping: Julien celebrating a goal for Bastia. He'd carefully cut it from an old sports section and kept it ever since. He idolized Julien.
"I just... I hope I can watch him dribble up close," Kvaratskhelia's voice was soft but carried unusual conviction. "The papers say his footwork and changes of direction are like magic."
An older kid patted his shoulder. "Khvicha, don't forget to get us autographs! Though I heard those guys can be pretty fierce, especially after losing."
But Kvaratskhelia shook his head seriously. "No, he won't be. I've watched his interviews. He said he respects every opponent."
As dusk fell, his friends dispersed howard one by one. Kvaratskhelia was last to leave the training base. He turned back toward the silhouette of the Boris Paichadze Dinamo Arena looming in the twilight.
Tomorrow, it would be packed, roaring with noise. He clenched his fists, not just from excitent about seeing his idol up close, but from a vague yet powerful thought taking root in his mind.
"Soday, I'll stand in a stadium like that. Not as a ball boy, but as a player making the crowd roar."
"Just like Julien."
The twelve-year-old's yearning stood in contrast to Tbilisi's prevailing "lose by less" pessimism. Beyond adult realism, a seed of football's future was quietly germinating.
The next day arrived, it was match day. The Boris Paichadze Dinamo Arena's surroundings were gradually filled with festival-like clamor. Georgian flags surged around the stadium periter.
In the plaza outside, the air humd with fans' passion and anticipation. So held traditional bull-horn cups, singing the haunting, polyphonic folk song "Suliko." Young people in national team shirts, faces painted, pounded drums with enthusiasm.
Conversations flowed through the crowd:
"This scene—it's like a holiday!"
"Yeah, we know it's tough to win, but getting to face a world-class power like France at ho, going toe-to-toe with them, that's worth it! Just to see how our boys asure up against those stars—that's enough!"
"Did you hear about France's number 10? That Julien kid's supposedly unreal!"
"Unreal? Did you watch his Liverpool matches? That guy's only eighteen, but he's an absolute monster on pitch! His acceleration, the rhythm of his dribbling, our backline's going to suffer tonight."
"So what! No matter how talented, on our turf he'll taste Caucasus toughness! Let Ketsbaia's boys play brave. Even if we lose, we lose standing up!"
That complex emotion filled the stadium vicinity.
When Georgia's team bus, flanked by police escort, slowly approached the stadium's dedicated tunnel, the crowd erupted in ear-splitting support. Monts later, France's bus rolled in.
Boos poured down, but countless phones lifted as well, caras were strained on the windows, hoping to catch a glimpse of the legendary number 10.
Ti passed in the fans' anticipation. After warm-ups concluded and players returned to the tunnel entrance for kickoff, the Boris Paichadze Dinamo Arena hit its first crescendo of the night.
Deep red and white flags and scarves whipped across the stands, rging into a churning, suffocating sea. When the PA announced the ho team's starting XI, every na triggered thunderous cheers mixed with whistles and roars.
Inside the tunnel, Georgian players heard it all. Their hearts surged, hungry to deliver victory for their countryn.
At that mont, the Georgian broadcast comntary crackled with enthusiasm:
"Tonight, our Caucasus Lions welco a world power: Didier Deschamps' France!
Listen to these voices! Listen to these chants! This is our Tbilisi, our fortress! Everyone says this is a mismatch in quality, but look at the fire in our fans' eyes! Those aren't the eyes of surrender, those are the eyes of warriors ready for battle."
The cara found close-ups of Georgian players. The comntator kept building intensity.
Then the shot cut to Julien among the French squad.
"And facing them is Europe's hottest superstar—Julien De Rocca! Just eighteen years old, this Frenchman has five goals in two Premier League matches. His pace, his technique, that innate killer instinct, he's the greatest threat to our defense tonight!
We must acknowledge it: this is a genius, a true genius. Every touch he takes can create danger. But that's precisely why tonight's match ans far more than points alone! This is our litmus test! Our backline will face a world-class attacker directly."
In the tunnel, twelve-year-old Khvicha Kvaratskhelia stood in his oversized ball boy bib at his assigned position, nervous tension was coursing through him. Right beside him was the French national team captain, Julien himself.
His eyes locked onto the figure wearing the number 10 shirt with near-religious intensity.
Julien seed to sense the focused gaze. He glanced sideways and saw the small Georgian boy standing close beside him. Sothing about the kid seed vaguely familiar, though Julien didn't dwell on it.
He gave a warm smile and said quietly in English: "Ready? Stay close, kid."
Those words shot through Kvaratskhelia like electricity. He froze, then nodded vigorously, almost reflexively, his small hands were unconsciously gripping his shirt.
His idol had not only noticed him but spoken to him!
In that instant, sothing subtle yet profound shifted inside Kvaratskhelia. The initial pure, stargazing worship began transforming.
Julien's simple words and smile didn't create distance, instead, they sparked an unexpected resonance and courage.
"He's not so unreachable god. He's only six years older than . He was once a kid like , working his way up step by step."
That thought planted itself like a seed.
"Let's go." The referee gestured, it was ti for kickoff.
Julien's expression sharpened instantly, his eyes were turning predatory as he strode onto the pitch with resolute steps, imdiately swallowed by the wall of noise and flashing lights
Kvaratskhelia took a deep breath. He no longer simply looked up passively, he straightened his small body, gripped Julien's hand tightly, and ran with him onto that field he'd always dread of.
Right then, beyond worship, a new fla ignited in his chest.
"Soday, I'll stand here as a player, not a ball boy, accepting everyone's cheers."
After pre-match ceremonies concluded, Julien naturally didn't notice how profoundly a ball boy's heart had been moved by him. Photos were done, and the mascots also left the field.
Kvaratskhelia practically looked back every third step, drinking in the massive stadium, his resolve was hardening further. He would beco like Julien, beco a symbol of his national team's football.
anwhile, Julien participated in the coin toss as captain. He called it wrong, Georgia was selected to kick off. Julien chose the end they'd ward up toward for France's first-half attack.
Soon, players took their positions in the center circle. The match was about to begin.
TWEET!
The referee's whistle pierced the stadium: kickoff!
Kobakhidze tapped the ball back to captain Kankava at the center circle arc. Their entire formation, rehearsed countless tis, imdiately retreated with precision. Both fullbacks tucked inside to form a tight four-man line with the center-backs. The midfield dropped to within thirty ters of their own box, creating a clear defensive wall.
France had obviously anticipated this. Giroud and Ribéry as the first line of pressure imdiately closed down the Georgian ball-carrier. Behind them, Julien, Valbuena, Giravogui, and Moussa Sissoko ford a second wave, the entire shape was pushing forward aggressively, pinning Georgia into their own half.
Under France's high press, Georgian defenders managed only cautious sideways passes, occasionally attempting long balls toward the isolated Kobakhidze up front. But possession quickly returned to France via Koscielny and Abidal's control.
This pattern persisted for roughly three minutes, France dominated possession but struggled to find penetration against the massed defense.
The breakthrough ca at 3:17.
Georgian left-back Khubutia attempted a pass to his defensive midfielder but under hit it. Moussa Sissoko pounced, using his body to shield the ball and complete the interception.
After winning possession, Sissoko didn't push forward himself, he imdiately found Valbuena checking to the right channel.
Valbuena took a touch, looked up, surveyed his options, then delivered a pinpoint long ball over the top.
The ball arced beautifully over Georgia's scrambling backline, finding a pocket of space in the left channel of the penalty area!
Giroud had already read it, and began using his powerful body to hold off the marking center-back, moving toward the dropping ball.
Simultaneously, Julien originally on the right wing decisively cut inside, sprinting toward the center of the box at high speed.
Giroud didn't force a header toward goal. Just like countless training repetitions, he served as the target striker, cushioning the ball down and laying it off.
Julien t it, and there was no hesitation, he unleashed a thunderous strike!
CRACK!
Julien's shot exploded like a cannonball, screaming toward the top right corner with a sharp whistle.
Georgian keeper Loria barely had ti to react as the ball flashed past his eyeline. He raised an arm instinctively, his body stood frozen.
CLANG!
The entire Boris Paichadze Stadium gasped jointly, followed imdiately by a massive, relieved roar!
The ball clipped the top of the crossbar and flew into the stands behind.
"AHHH!"
Georgian fans clutched their chests, shaken, exchanging disbelieving looks. For a split second, they'd already heard the net rippling.
In the away section, groans of frustration echoed.
On the touchline, France's bench erupted in a chorus of head-holding dismay. Deschamps had been about to celebrate before seeing the ball fly over, he shook his head regretfully, then applauded vigorously toward the pitch.
At least the tactics were working perfectly.
The entire sequence from Sissoko's tackle to Giroud's layoff to Julien's shot had involved just three passes from Matuidi, Ribéry, Valbuena taking under eight seconds.
"Gorgeous! That's the rhythm!" Deschamps, arms still folded, shouted his approval, satisfaction was clear on his face. "Hard in defense, lightning in attack!"
On the pitch, Julien saw his shot sail over and clutched his head briefly, regret appeared on his face. But within a second, he dropped his hands and gave Giroud a thumbs-up.
He knew exactly how perfect and selfless that layoff had been. This was Giroud's value to France—sothing a certain white-clad striker could never replicate.
Giroud shrugged back at Julien, pinching his thumb and forefinger together with a helpless grin, as if to say: "Just that close!"
Julien shrugged in return.
Georgia's goal kick went short, play resud. But Julien's rocket shot had left Georgian left-back Grigalava drenched in cold sweat. Technically, Julien was his man.
But silently he felt bitter, even if Julien had announced exactly where he planned to run, Grigalava couldn't have reacted fast enough to stop him.
That was the gulf in ability.
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