Hadzibegic stood on the touchline, his expression alternating between concern and relief, fully absorbed in the contest.
Precisely because he understood this might be his greatest season as a manager, he approached every decision with extreme caution.
One mistake could destroy everything.
They'd come too far to stumble now.
Managers with defensive backgrounds always shared this trait—obsessive focus on defensive solidity.
As for attack?
Trust Julien.
Under Hadzibegic's conservative tactical instructions, Basel found themselves increasingly frustrated.
The defensive counter-attack—one of football's most classical tactical approaches.
Its essence: "trade space for opportunity."
The solution lay in controlling tempo to limit counter-attacking chances, using multiple attacking methods to break down defensive blocks, anticipating key threats defensively, and most critically—exploiting set-piece situations.
Italy's 2006 World Cup conquest exemplified this perfectly—seven matches, only two goals conceded, a masterclass in both executing and neutralizing the counter-attack.
Now, seeing Bastia's response to conceding, Yakin immediately signaled adjustments to his players.
Basel couldn't dominate possession completely, nor could they avoid mistakes entirely. So, Yakin's pre-match preparation emphasized targeted limitations.
Press Bastia's counter-attacking trigger points aggressively. Cut off the long passing lanes. Have fullbacks tuck inside to protect the half-spaces.
Against Bastia, the priorities were clear: sever De Bruyne's connection to the forwards and neutralize Julien's wing threat.
Many teams understood this in theory. Few could execute it. De Bruyne was manageable, to an extent. But Julien? Nearly impossible to stop completely.
The evidence was obvious.
Whenever Julien received the ball on the right, both Voser and Stocker looked utterly harried.
But tonight's referee seemed to be allowing significant physicality.
When Julien drove forward with the ball and was pulled back with clear shirt-tugging, no whistle came. This leniency gave Basel's defenders a blueprint: foul him.
A few minutes later, Julien collected possession on the wing. Instead of driving down the touchline, he suddenly cut horizontally into central areas, then accelerated forward.
But as he entered that zone, Serey Die and Frei united on him.
Same tactic: tactical fouling.
Julien tried to accelerate clear, but felt a kick to his calf. For self-preservation, he didn't force the issue and went down.
No whistle. The referee waved play on.
Julien raised his hand in protest. The official ignored him and gestured for him to get up.
Meanwhile, Basel won possession and immediately launched a counter. Fortunately, Bastia's defensive structure held firm, and the attack eventually broke down into positional play.
Julien shook his head, adjusted his socks, and got back to his feet.
Bastia's attacking rhythm stuttered slightly.
Basel weren't much better.
Their offense was equally stifled.
Finally, in the 24th minute, Basel carved out a genuine opportunity. Sidibé was once again exposed by Salah's pace.
Salah whipped in a cross.
The ball reached the penalty area, where Streller chested it down with his back to goal, laying it off to Frei. The Basel captain shaped to replicate De Bruyne's earlier worldie—a long-range thunderbolt.
But the instant he received the ball, Kanté closed him down. Frei quickly adjusted, pulling the ball back with a deft touch.
The feint wrong-footed Kanté, but Frei's plant foot landed directly on Kanté's boot.
"AHHH!"
Frei collapsed, crying out in pain.
TWEET!
The referee blew for a free kick. But crucially—no yellow card for Kanté. Basel's players and Yakin erupted in protest.
They thought it was a clear booking—Kanté had caught him on the shin!
"That's a yellow card!" Yakin shouted from the technical area, visibly agitated. He knew exactly how important Kanté was to Bastia's structure.
A red card seemed unlikely, but a yellow would force Kanté into caution for the rest of the match.
But tonight's referee maintained his lenient approach. There was no further action.
Basel had no choice but to accept it, though they'd benefited from similar leniency when fouling Julien earlier.
Hadzibegic exhaled with relief. At least the referee was consistently lenient, not selectively harsh.
Soon, Basel's players positioned themselves around the penalty area.
TWEET!
Frei struck the set piece.
The ball arced into the box.
Players jostled for position in a crowded knot. While supporters were still tracking the ball's flight, Streller rose highest, getting his head to it and directing it goalward. But someone—impossible to tell who in the chaos—got a deflection, and the ball rebounded back out.
Streller's arms shot up theatrically. "HANDBALL! HANDBALL!" he screamed.
TWEET!
Simultaneously, the referee's whistle shrilled—and he pointed to the penalty spot.
Penalty to Basel.
"WHAT?!"
The Bastia supporters were stunned. How on earth was that a penalty?
On the pitch, Bastia's players immediately surrounded the official, protesting vehemently.
Julien reached him first. "How is that a penalty?!" His tone was sharp—after being kicked repeatedly without getting calls, and now this sudden spot kick, his patience was gone.
The referee shook his head firmly, gesturing. "Handball," he stated, pointing directly at Van Dijk.
Van Dijk gestured helplessly toward his own shoulder. "It hit my shoulder! How is that my arm?"
The referee remained unmoved.
He waved the Bastia players back. This decision was final. No reversal.
The Bastia players retreated, shaking their heads in frustration.
Fabian Schär placed the ball on the spot.
He was Basel's most reliable penalty taker, which is why he stepped up. Last July, Schär had arrived from Swiss club Wil and quickly established himself as a defensive mainstay.
As he set the ball, he kissed it for luck.
TWEET!
The whistle sounded. Schär struck cleanly.
He wrong-footed Martinez completely, slotting the ball into the opposite corner.
1-1.
Basel had equalized.
Schär sprinted toward the corner flag in jubilation, teammates racing after him. In the stands, Bastia supporters unleashed a torrent of boos, completely drowning out the small pocket of traveling Basel fans.
Julien's jaw tightened.
As he walked back toward the center circle, he clapped his hands, rallying his teammates. "Heads up! It's just one goal. An accident."
He made sure to catch Van Dijk's eye. The Dutchman showed no emotional reaction—good mentality.
Then Julien moved closer to De Bruyne. "Try to give me the ball with some space in front. I've got the pace advantage—they can't stop me. With the way the ref's letting things go, we need to avoid getting bogged down. Hit them on the counter."
De Bruyne wiped sweat from his forehead and nodded.
He understood. With the official allowing heavy contact, the smartest approach was to exploit Bastia's speed advantage in transition.
The only question: would Basel give them that space?
After equalizing, Basel became even more conservative. Yakin began mirroring Hadzibegic's approach—sitting deeper, defending in numbers.
For an away match, a draw was an acceptable result for Yakin.
But Bastia didn't accept it.
Julien didn't accept it.
After conceding, Julien expanded his area of influence, roaming more freely, constantly threatening Basel's flanks.
At the same time, Kanté rediscovered his rhythm as the midfield destroyer.
His defensive coverage in the middle third was immense. When Basel lost possession, he and his teammates immediately pressed high, forcing errors.
Basel's composure cracked.
De Bruyne looked for Julien, but found Frei shadowing him tightly. So, he identified an alternate route.
Mané.
THUMP!
De Bruyne launched a diagonal ball toward the left channel.
Mané's pace had already put Basel on edge. Right-back Steinhöfer didn't dare commit too high, staying deeper to monitor Mané's runs.
Fortunately for Basel, Mané's one-on-one ability wasn't quite at Julien's level. Otherwise, both flanks would've been completely exposed.
But Mané understood his role.
Push forward. Attack the defensive line.
When he collected the pass, there were no fancy tricks—just raw, direct speed.
Steinhöfer tried to keep pace while maintaining separation, but he had almost no chance in a straight footrace. All he could do was stay close enough to prevent the cutback.
Then, as Mané approached the penalty area.
CRACK!
He drilled a pass across the face of goal.
Lukaku let it run through his legs with a dummy.
On the other side, Julien was sprinting into the channel at full tilt.
This was Julien's off-ball brilliance—always appearing in the most dangerous zones.
Lukaku's dummy. Julien's perfectly timed run.
A staple of Bastia's attacking playbook, but in this moment, it worked to devastating effect.
Because Julien's acceleration completely caught Basel by surprise—not that they didn't know he'd make the run, but they didn't anticipate how fast he'd arrive.
He left the entire defensive line trailing in his wake.
One-on-one.
Julien took the ball into the box, the shooting angle narrowing with every touch. Sommer rushed off his line aggressively.
In that split second—
Julien shaped to shoot, his leg swinging through—but at the last instant, his ankle flicked, chopping the ball sideways instead.
Sommer had already committed, diving full-length the moment he saw the backlift.
By the time he was in midair, Julien had already cut the ball past him. The momentum couldn't be stopped. He could only watch helplessly as Julien eliminated him from the equation.
ROAAAAR!
The Cesari stadium erupted.
This was Julien's signature—rounding the keeper before slotting home. Every single time, it sent the supporters into raptures.
Amid the deafening noise, the ball rolled gently into the empty net.
2-1.
Moments after Basel had clawed level, Bastia had restored their lead.
Julien jogged casually toward the touchline, spreading his arms wide as he faced the stands, repeatedly raising them higher, demanding more noise, more passion!
In that instant, time seemed to freeze at the Stade Armand Cesari.
Then, all at once, the accumulated energy—the compressed, primal emotion stored in every soul present erupted like a volcano that had slept for millennia.
BOOOOOOM—
This wasn't merely a cheer. This was the sound of twenty thousand Bastia hearts, their blood boiling in their veins, their emotion spilling out in a tsunami of noise that threatened to lift the roof clean off the stadium.
"JULIEN!"
"JULIEN!!"
The supporters roared his name with everything they had. They could feel their blood surging, scalding hot, every cell in their bodies vibrating with incandescent joy.
They waved their arms frantically, blue shirts and scarves creating a churning sea of color.
Julien stood in that storm, arms outstretched, bathing in the adoration.
Meanwhile, in Madrid
Zinedine Zidane sat in his living room, watching the broadcast, feeling both pride and concern for Julien as the young man stood triumphant on the screen.
Just two days earlier, a phone call had come through a mutual friend—a representative claiming to speak for the Reuben Brothers, British billionaires.
The message was simple: convince Julien to join their club, and Zidane would be handed the managerial reins.
The offer had been tempting.
A chance to begin his coaching career. Deschamps' words still echoed in his mind: "You need to start managing sooner rather than later. Coaching isn't as simple as you think. You can't just walk into a job and win trophies."
Zidane wanted to start that journey. To begin learning.
This was an opportunity. And it would mean coaching Julien.
But when Zidane asked which club, the representative remained coy. "This is an extremely serious offer. But we need mutual interest before we discuss specifics. What I can guarantee is that if you take this job, transfer budgets will never be an issue.
Look at PSG. Look at Manchester City. They can spend €100 million in a single summer. So can we. Our ambition is limitless."
The voice had continued: "We admire Julien. We understand he's the face of French football. And we're willing to leverage all our connections in England and beyond—to help him become the next Ballon d'Or winner.
Better yet, the youngest ever. He'll be 19 next season. He has two years to break the record. And we'll bring in more French players. We want France, led by Julien, to challenge for the World Cup."
The representative wanted a decision.
But Zidane had hesitated.
He did want this opportunity. Desperately, even. But he couldn't exploit his relationship with Julien for personal gain.
So, he wouldn't mention it. He wouldn't interfere with Julien's decision-making process.
At most, he'd offer advice—unbiased advice, free from self-interest.
That was what a mentor should do.
Not use the position to manipulate a young player for personal advancement.
Besides, Zidane knew his own limitations as a coach. He still needed time to develop. If he took the job and coached Julien now, he genuinely feared he might hold the kid back.
So, he'd declined.
Though he'd refused, the representative left a contact number. "If you change your mind, reach out anytime."
Zidane wouldn't change his mind.
Still, he understood the influence Julien now wielded. He worried about the swirling currents around the young man—the pressure, the temptation, the risk of making the wrong choice.
But then, remembering his few interactions with Julien, Zidane relaxed slightly.
He'll make the right decision, Zidane thought.
On the television, the match continued, both teams grinding through a turgid tactical stalemate.
Zidane studied the players' positioning; his mind was working through hypothetical scenarios. If I were managing this team, how would I set them up? How would I use Julien?
Counter-attacking seemed ideal for Bastia's current squad. But it wasn't necessarily the best system for Julien.
Zidane had his own philosophy about football.
Yes, he'd learned under Mourinho, absorbing lessons in defensive solidity and transition play. But that didn't mean it was the only way.
Eventually, his thoughts drifted to the representative's mention of the World Cup.
His gaze fixed on the television screen, but his mind traveled back to 2006—that night in Berlin. He could almost hear the noise again, the boos raining down inside the Olympiastadion.
It was so vivid.
He knew those boos weren't for him. They were for Materazzi, 193cm tall yet collapsing dramatically. They were for referee Elizondo, waving that red card.
The television replay had captured everything—Zidane's headbutt, Materazzi crumpling.
But cameras can't record words. And sometimes, words cut deeper than actions.
So, his final match, his farewell, ended with a red card.
He'd walked toward the sideline, muttering to himself, passing right by the World Cup trophy without a second glance—because he couldn't lift it a second time. He descended the tunnel stairs quickly, retreating to the dressing room, where he watched the rest of the match on television like any ordinary fan.
All those beautiful pre-match visions—winning as a farewell, removing his shirt to reveal a message of thanks, walking the perimeter, acknowledging the supporters one last time, returning home a champion—none of it could ever happen now.
To French fans, he was "Zizou," their idol. But he wasn't perfect. He was never the flawless superstar they imagined. The fans had elevated him to that status, projecting their ideals onto him.
In truth, his career included thirteen red cards. Numerous moments of aggression. Some even called him "a madman."
Materazzi knew Zidane well. He knew exactly how to provoke him.
And he'd succeeded.
Zidane sat on his couch now, the television images shifting, his expression unchanging.
He sat quietly, remembering.
Thirty years ago, when he wasn't yet "Zizou"—just "Yazid"—he'd been sent off in a match in Bouches-du-Rhône. Someone had provoked him, and he'd reacted like a wounded animal, refusing to back down.
Twenty years later, faced with provocation, he'd bared his teeth again.
Thirty years later, stripped of all the glory, he still dreamed of that night.
That night of boos, of chaos.
That night when he walked past the World Cup.
Gradually, that number 10 silhouette from his memory merged with the number 10 on the television screen.
Zidane smiled.
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