This was the moment a legend was born!
The instant the ball buried itself in the far corner of the net, the silence over the Maracanã completely shattered, replaced by a deafening roar, a frenzy of screaming voices.
BOOM!
BOOM, BOOM!!
The sound rolled on and on, and combined with the sweltering air, it felt as though every inch of the atmosphere had caught fire.
Every corner of the stands was swallowed by the wild emotion of the French fans!
Julien had done it single-handedly—a half-miracle. Down a man, with France on the ropes, he had turned the score around, 2-1.
That lead had come at brutal cost. This celebration came like a flood.
Julien, after the goal let go of everything he'd been holding in. He sprinted toward the section packed with French fans.
Sweat flying, jersey wafting in the wind, radiant with triumph. He ran all the way to the railing at the edge of the pitch, leapt up, and landed steady on top of it.
Then—
He spread his arms wide, like a king surveying his kingdom, tilting his head back slightly, eyes closed, as if to declare:I, Julien De Rocca, have brought victory to France!
That image...
Set the entire stadium of French fans ablaze.
Up in the stands, the French supporters had already gone past the point of composure.
The tension that had gripped them the whole match snapped in an instant. Many were in tears, sweat and tears mixing as they gushed down their faces, and still they waved their French flags with everything they had, chanting Julien's name, over and over.
"Julien!"
"JULIEN!!"
The chanting shook the stands, rolling out across the whole of the Maracanã.
Some fans, overcome, pressed their hands together and looked to the heavens, pouring out their gratitude—it was Julien, in the depths of despair, who had given them hope, who had given France a chance to turn this around.
Out on the pitch, the French players had lost themselves wholly to the moment.
Pogba, Kanté, and the others—even Lloris sprinted toward Julien, mobbing him at the railing, screaming, slapping his hand, pounding him on the back.
The substitutes could no longer hold themselves back either.
They came pouring over.
Some waved team towels crazily, shouting at the top of their lungs.
Once Julien finished his celebration and climbed down off the railing, everyone crowded around him.
Slapping his back again and again, shouting, "You're unbelievable!"
"We're going to win this!!"
"Julien, you're a god! You just made a miracle happen!!"
On the sideline.
Deschamps had shed every ounce of pressure he'd been carrying, and now he too was lost to the frenzy.
He pumped his fist toward the pitch, roaring, his whole body bouncing, then turned and threw his arms around the assistant coach beside him.
His eyes had gone red with emotion. He knew just how hard it was to turn a match around while playing a man short.
And he knew, even more, that Julien had not let him down. Had not let hundreds of millions of French fans down.
He clapped hard, facing Julien's direction.
At the same time—
A thought flickered through his mind: if they advanced, the next round would almost certainly mean Brazil.
And the hosts, Brazil, felt like they might be even tougher than Germany.
But he pushed the thought aside quickly and turned his focus to the defensive problem of the final few minutes.
Up in the stands.
Beyond the frenzy of the French fans, Zidane and Blanc had finally let the tension drain from their faces too.
Both wore broad smiles, clapping, exchanging a look and laughing.
Zidane nodded slowly, the smile at the corners of his mouth was impossible to hide, as if he were watching a younger version of himself—that same courage to step forward in the darkest moment, that same command of the entire pitch.
Blanc was even prouder. This kid he'd personally brought into the national team—he was about to become a legend.
To seize a match this hard-fought, turn its whole direction single-handedly—the French would make him into something like a god.
They used to call Zidane "Zizou."
What would they call Julien?
Far away, in Paris, the city had already tipped into a frenzy like nothing before.
The whole city, as if swept by an earthquake no one could see.
In the square in front of the city hall, more than thirty thousand French fans had thrown themselves into an ocean of celebration, waving flags, holding up posters of Julien's face, chanting his name in one voice.
It rang out over the rooftops of Paris!
The ground itself seemed to tremble along with them, like an actual earthquake.
On the giant screen in the square, the moment played back again and again—Julien breaking through on the counter, the strike, the leap up onto the railing.
Every replay set off another wave of cheering, louder than the last.
Fans who'd travelled from Bastia clung to each other crying and shouting, "Bastia is proud of you!"
Chanting his name over and over again.
Proud of him. Electrified by France's win.
Along the streets, bars roared with noise; shouts spilled from windows in house after house... it was as if all of Paris had been wrapped up in the joy of this turnaround.
Every corner of it was wild with the madness of it.
Back inside the Maracanã, Julien was still surrounded by his teammates, arms spread wide, soaking in the roar of the crowd, his face was lit up with a smile, brilliant, dazzling smile.
He was smiling for real.
This was his moment. This was a moment for the whole of France.
A moment every French fan would carry for the rest of their lives.
Down a man, facing an opponent throwing everything at them—he had broken the deadlock alone and delivered the win.
Meanwhile, the instant Julien's shot found the net, up in the commentary booth, Alphonse completely lost it. He shot to his feet, gripping the microphone with both hands, his scream cut straight through every screen airing this match anywhere in the world.
His whole body shook with the force of it, his face flushed deep red.
After a string of wild, screaming "GOAL!"s.
He steadied himself a little, though he was still shaking, "Julien! It's Julien again! Down a man, choking under Germany's pressure, staring straight into the abyss—it's Julien!
This kid out of Bastia, all on his own, has given France a way through!
Given us the win!
This is Julien De Rocca! This is our hero, Hero of FRANCE!
Cabaye sent off, down a man, the midfield collapsed, Germany's attack came in wave after wave, our goal under siege, every single second an agony!
We were all asking, can France even hold on?
Do we still have a chance?
The answer is right here!
It's Julien!
France has come back from the dead!
WE have come back from the dead!
Down a man—so what? Pinned back—so what?
As long as Julien's out there, as long as he's still on the pitch, we have hope!
This win is not luck, it's not chance—it's Julien! All of this, because our hero stepped up!
Look at the celebration out there!
Look at Julien up on that railing, arms spread wide—that's a king in his kingdom!
Look at our players, look at our fans, going wild, in tears, screaming—because they know it was Julien who saved this entire team, Julien who showed us the light in the darkest moment!
We're not going home yet!
We're staying in Brazil, still fighting in this World Cup!
Every French fan's hope has not been in vain!
Because of Julien, we broke through the impossible. Because of Julien, we turned the score around.
2-1!
We're ahead!
Down a man, and on the back of Julien's goal, we're ahead of mighty Germany!"
Alphonse's voice had gone completely unsteady, shaking with every word. "I can't find the words for what I'm feeling right now—thrilled, stunned, so proud, all of it tangled together!
There are still a few minutes left. I believe Julien will keep protecting this lead, I believe our players will keep fighting to the very end!
But whatever happens from here, today—today Julien became a legend.
Today belongs to Julien. Today belongs to France.
Julien, forever!
France, forever!"
For France, this was paradise.
For Germany, it was hell.
In this single moment.
The two most extreme emotions a person can feel played out, in full, at opposite ends of the same stadium.
The instant Julien's shot found the net, the roar of the Maracanã belonged to France.
And despair settled over every single German player.
The team that had spent the match pouring forward now looked as if every ounce of strength had been drained out of them in an instant—frozen where they stood, unable to believe it, a bitterness they couldn't swallow, a helplessness creeping up from somewhere deep inside.
It pressed down on them, crushing them, suffocating them.
Neuer was still standing at his goal line, hands on his hips, head down, his face empty of expression—only a hollowness behind his eyes.
The image of Julien slipping the ball past him with that sluggish little scoop kept replaying in his head, over and over, like a curse he couldn't break.
He had never felt this humiliated. Never felt this hopeless.
He had thrown everything he had into every save.
But in the end, he hadn't been able to stop Julien's winner. Hadn't been able to hold the draw for his team. And that guilt sat on him so heavy he couldn't even lift his head.
Boateng, who'd gone down on the play, slowly climbed back to his feet, grass still clinging to his knee. He didn't bother brushing it off. He just stood there, dazed.
Staring blankly at the ball sitting in the back of the net, lost, and furious with himself.
It was him—beaten by that one shoulder-drop, that one change of direction, sent sprawling to the ground, handing Julien the break he needed.
It was him who'd failed to hold the last line of defence, who'd become the man his team would blame for the loss.
He slowly clenched his fist, his nails were digging into his own palm, but he didn't feel the pain at all—only regret, endless, sitting heavy in his chest.
Khedira stood out in midfield too, both hands pressed over his face, his shoulders were shaking.
The memory of Julien controlling the ball, gliding past him without breaking his run, had wrecked whatever pride he had left, and left him furious with himself.
He hadn't been able to stop Julien's break. Hadn't bought his defence the time it needed. He'd stood there and watched Julien run right through them and finish it and that feeling of helplessness had nearly broken him.
Schürrle, Götze, and the rest of them—heads down, one after another... whatever fight, whatever belief they'd had left, Julien's finish had wiped it all away in an instant.
Müller stood with his hands on his hips at the edge of the box, at a loss for what to do.
He'd given everything all match, created chance after chance, and never once found the net and now, with his team up a man and pouring forward, to be beaten single-handedly by the opponent—that gap between what should have happened and what did was more than he could stomach.
He shouted at his teammates, trying to shake them awake, to reignite something.
Only to find his own voice, swallowed up by the roar of the French crowd, sounded almost nothing at all.
His teammates were still sunk in their own despair. No one answered him.
On the sideline, Löw had lost every trace of his usual composure. He stood there like a statue.
The players on the bench looked just as blank, just as stunned.
No one had seen this coming.
No one had imagined that they who'd held every advantage—could end up behind like this.
They were only a few minutes from going home.
Regulation time had only two- or three-minutes left, and with stoppage added on, that came to maybe six or seven minutes in total.
Did Germany still have a chance?
They did!
They still did!!
Slowly, some of the German players lifted their heads, calling to each other, drawing strength from one another.
There was still time to level the score, still a chance to rewrite how this would end—Julien's single goal had gutted their morale, shattered their belief.
But they still had a chance!
However….
For the German fans, the time that remained felt less like hope and more like something to be endured.
They too, now, had to do what the French fans had just done.
Pray to God.
Pray for one chance.
As play resumed.
Germany threw everyone forward!!
Löw waved frantically from the sideline, screaming instructions, urging his players forward with everything he had, all his usual calm gone, his face tense with urgency, shouting into the pitch: "Push up! Everyone push up!!"
Germany's whole shape shifted forward, midfield and attack pressed tight together, the passing tempo grew suddenly sharper, and faster.
They had to buy back the time somehow!
France, by now, stood as one, with a single word carved into their bones: hold.
Deschamps gestured wildly from the sideline, telling his players to pull the lines in tight, drop everyone back into their own half, set up the deepest, most solid wall they could manage.
Even Julien had to drop deep to help defend.
The players didn't hesitate either. They knew—every single defensive stand in these last few minutes could decide everything.
The brutality of attack against defence showed itself in full, out there on the pitch.
In this stifling heat, both sides were running on fumes, holding on through sheer will alone.
On the French side, players kept going down, one after another, cramping.
Germany could see it happening, and it only made them more desperate but there was nothing they could do about it.
The clock kept dragging on.
It reached the 91st minute, and Germany got a golden chance that nearly levelled the score!
Kroos sent a pass from outside the box, splitting France's defence clean open. Schürrle picked it up on the left, drove to the byline, and cut it back into the middle of the box.
Müller, predicting the run, slipped away from Koscielny's marking and got there first, touching the ball.
But there was no angle for the shot.
Müller's effort had nothing on it, and Lloris caught it—France had escaped again, by the skin of their teeth.
Müller grabbed his head with both hands, stamping the ground in fury, unable to accept it.
Every single German player felt the despair from it.
But missing that chance didn't break them—if anything, it drove them harder, and their attacks came in even more furious waves.
Five minutes of stoppage time.
Germany had no time left for patient buildup, for stringing passes together—it was crosses from the flanks, long shots from range.
One attempt after another, chasing that goal.
But none of it landed.
In the final minute of stoppage time, with the clock nearly out, they won a corner—their last hope, their one remaining shot at rewriting how this would end.
Every German fan in the stadium rose to their feet, shouting at the top of their lungs, willing their team on.
Löw pressed his hands together on the sideline, praying silently.
Neuer abandoned his goal, and sprinted the full length of the pitch into France's box to join the fight for the ball himself—he had to be there, had to give his team every last chance.
Kroos, standing over the corner, took a deep breath.
Then—
He ran up, struck the ball, and sent it curling toward the back post.
Everyone in the box leapt simultaneously and there, completely unmarked, was Neuer, finding the space, exactly as he'd hoped. He rose up, using every inch of his height, and threw his head at the ball with everything he had.
Every eye in the stadium locked onto that ball as it sailed toward France's goal.
But.
Fate had no mercy left for the team that had bet everything on this one chance.
The ball sailed over the bar and out.
Neuer crashed down hard inside the box, lying face-down, pounding his fists into the grass.
And in that same instant, the referee's whistle sounded, calling the match to its end!
TWEET!!!
The whistle rang out across the entire Maracanã!!
France had gone mad with joy!
They'd won!
They had actually won it!!!
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