Four-nil!
No matter who saw such a football score, they could say the match was over.
But in the Bastia locker room, Hadzibegic was as cautious as ever.
"Do you think four goals is a lot? No, let put it this way—in my forr country Yugoslavia, the diterranean coast on our side, we called it 'Jadranski zaljev,' what you call the Adriatic Gulf."
"In my childhood, when my father taught football, he often told that the storms of the Adriatic could destroy thirty fishing boats in a single night. He warned never to beco complacent in defense after one success—defense must be consistent."
"Now, I'm telling you the sa! We need to beco that storm, and we won't stop until we've blown everything away!"
"Defend well, keep attacking, win this match, and enter the final with our heads held high!!"
"We've co this far—we have no reason to stop."
Hadzibegic's gaze swept over everyone.
All the Bastia players had the sa determination in their eyes. At the beginning of the season, or even during the winter window, who could have imagined that Bastia would have a day of competing on two fronts?
Thinking about it, many people's gazes fell on Julien.
This "problem child," as they once called him, had beco Bastia's indispensable attacking core in just a few months.
After Hadzibegic finished speaking, Châtaigner also chid in, "Don't forget your bonuses!"
"Hahaha!"
The Bastia locker room erupted in laughter.
The Stade Robert‑Diochon wasn't large, and the ho and away locker rooms weren't far apart, nor were they particularly soundproof.
Bastia's laughter reached the silent Quevilly-Rouen locker room like thunder.
Second half.
Julien was protectively substituted by Hadzibegic in the fiftieth minute.
At the Sunset Café Bar.
The sound of clinking glasses was everywhere.
The fans watched the match contentedly, looking at that reassuring scoreline.
"At the beginning of the season, I was still wondering if we could avoid relegation in Ligue 2. Mid-season, I was wondering if we could push for the promotion playoffs. But now, I'm wondering if we can achieve the Double Crown Crown."
"Hahaha, who isn't? At the beginning of our club's history, we had championships, but never in our history have we had a Double Crown. This season, perhaps we have a chance to witness history."
"Julien is definitely the team's biggest contributor!"
"Do you even need to say that? That's everyone's consensus."
The fans chatted and drank.
As the match gradually approached its end, Quevilly-Rouen showed no possibility of scoring.
Bertrand's bartending movents beca much livelier.
Listening to the custors' words, the phrase "Double Crown" floated through his mind.
He also rembered that man—who in his final monts was still mumbling about opening that barrel of anise liquor he'd made himself on the night of Bastia's championship victory—that man with "blue blood" flowing through his veins.
While mixing drinks and occasionally glancing at Julien appearing in the broadcast footage, he made a decision.
He shouted to the crowd, "Hey! Guys, listen to , maybe I've thought of a brilliant event."
"Bertrand, are you going to give discounts again?"
"This ti, every goal Julien scores should count as a twenty percent discount!"
Everyone laughed.
Bertrand poured the mixed drink into glasses, pushed them in front of the fans, then said seriously, "No, not selling—I'm planning to give away drinks."
Everyone looked puzzled.
Bertrand continued, "Jacques's only wish before death was to see Bastia win the championship.
After the 1981 French Cup victory, Jacques made a barrel of anise liquor and put it in the basent. He said when Bastia won another championship, he'd bring it out for everyone to drink, but unfortunately, he never got his wish.
So, on the night of the French Cup final, if Bastia wins the championship, I'll fulfill his wish and open that barrel, letting everyone taste this championship flavor that's waited thirty-one years!"
Whoosh!
Everyone was stunned.
Jacques Bertrand—Bastia fans were more used to calling him Old Bell, Bastia's best liquor maker!
He viewed football and alcohol as life.
Dedicated his life to alcohol, and died from alcohol.
The predecessor of Sunset Café Bar, "Old Bell's Tavern," was a collective mory of all old Bastia fans.
Old Bell once said, "The emptiness after losing feels like soone scooped out my brains with a spoon, but it's exactly this pain that proves I'm still alive."
That old guy who was Bastia's best liquor maker had left behind one last barrel?
The bar fell quiet.
Soone sighed wistfully, others reminisced about the past of Old Bell's Tavern—
That was their youth, that was their fathers' youth.
"To Old Bell!"
Soone raised their glass and shouted;
Others silently downed their cups of anise liquor that no longer ca from Old Bell's production, rembering their old friend.
Beep!!!
In the no-longer-noisy bar, the whistle from the TV was clearly audible.
The match was over.
The Corsican broadcast shouted with excited waves—"Ten years later, we're in the French Cup final again!!"
"Will we recreate the championship history of thirty-one years ago, or accept the bitterness of being runners-up from ten years ago?
April 29th, French Cup final venue, Stade de Fr—"
Boom!!
No one was listening to what the comntator was saying anymore. The match had lost its suspense halfway through, but when the final whistle actually sounded, everyone's minds still rang with thunder.
They really made it to the final!
Last season, they were still in the National League!
Now, they were competing for titles on two fronts!
Everyone in the bar followed the TV broadcast's cara, looking toward the Bastia players at Stade Robert‑Diochon.
So excited, so shouting, so raising glasses in celebration.
Bertrand felt an emotion building in his heart, though he didn't know what it was.
In a trance,
he seed to see Jacques sitting in his designated chair at the bar, downing a large glass, then raising his arms and shouting, "Forza, Bastia!"
Robert Stade Robert‑Diochon.
At this mont, it had clearly beco Bastia's carnival ground.
The players excitedly rushed onto the field, hugging each other in celebration.
They surrounded Julien.
They escorted him toward the away section.
"Julien!"
"Julien!!"
Watching Julien at the front of the group of players, Modoso shouted hoarsely with all his might.
Everyone was shouting the sa na.
In their eyes was anticipation for the championship, longing for the Double Crown, and relentless pursuit of every victory!
Not just at Stade Robert‑Diochon.
At this mont in Bastia, every street corner was roaring "Double Crown."
Every raindrop carried the salty, fanatical scent of the sea.
Julien was no longer just a player—
He was the island's totem against the mainland, the ladder for mortals to touch mythology.
As the Corsican comntator said, "The French Cup final venue, Stade de France, is trembling, waiting for the hurricane to make landfall."
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