Basel's hopes of advancing now rested purely on mathematical theory, it was a thin possibility at best.
On the touchline, Yakin stood in silence, his chin propped on his hand, eyes seemingly fixed on the pitch but in reality, he was unfocused, staring at nothing. His gaze held no conviction, only the hollow emptiness of a man watching his dreams crumble.
5-1.
What could Basel possibly muster to overturn this scoreline?
What gnawed at Yakin even more was that despite deploying specific defensive arrangements against Bastia, everything unfolding on the pitch still filled him with dread. De Rocca, Mané, Lukaku—this attacking trident was thoroughly dismantling Basel's defensive structure with wave after wave of pressure.
Everyone knew Basel had no choice but to attack.
And Bastia, patient and controlled, simply waited to exploit the counterattack.
With Julien, Mané, and Lukaku spearheading the breaks and De Bruyne and Rothen orchestrating from deeper positions—Basel found themselves trapped in a vicious cycle: push forward, then scramble desperately back.
Up and down, up and down. Their energy was bleeding away with each transition.
Hadzibegic watched Julien attract the attention of two, sometimes three defenders simultaneously, and couldn't suppress a smile of satisfaction.
In a neck and neck game, this situation might prove troublesome. But in a cup tie with a strong lead, when the opposition was forced to attack? This was when Bastia was at their most lethal.
The logic was brutally simple.
When Bastia possessed three lightning-fast counterattacking outlets, how could you possibly defend? How could you balance attack and defense? And when you dedicated numbers forward, how could you recover in time?
The answer was clear.
But Basel had no alternative.
Throughout the first half, Basel's players could be seen sprinting furiously up and down the pitch. By the thirtieth minute, they'd already begun to throttle their own tempo, forced to slow down by sheer exhaustion.
And this was precisely what Bastia wanted—to secure victory at minimal cost. There was no need to expend unnecessary energy in a match that was ninety-nine percent decided.
So, when Basel decelerated, Bastia naturally eased off as well.
The first half produced just one additional goal.
As the half-time whistle blew, even the Swiss broadcast commentator resignedly admitted, "For Basel to advance now... perhaps only God himself could accomplish it."
Indeed.
It wasn't just the commentator who thought so. Even Basel's own players could see no path to a comeback.
In the dressing room, Yakin said little, simply instructing his players to rest.
"There's still another tough forty-five minutes ahead," he said, watching his defenders already breathing heavily, and let out a weary sigh.
Salah observed his teammates' demeanor and felt his insides twist with frustration. He hated losing. He hated feeling powerless even more.
This sensation tormented him. It made him think of De Rocca—another young player, even two years and was his junior. Salah exhaled slowly, resolving secretly to train even harder.
If talent wasn't enough, then effort would have to compensate.
On the other side, in Bastia's dressing room, Hadzibegic was considerably more relaxed, continuing to brief his players on defensive arrangements.
During the interval, back in Bastia at the Sunset Café Bar, the bar was packed to capacity. Glass after glass of pastis went down, alcohol and adrenaline were combining to send the atmosphere into orbit.
They all understood—Bastia would rarely, if ever, reach such heights again.
After their last peak, they'd waited thirty-four years. And after this one? How many thirty-four-year cycles does a lifetime contain?
The second half kicked off.
Following the break, Basel's players had recovered some physical reserves. They came out aggressively, still desperately searching for that elusive goal, some glimmer of hope.
This was their home ground, after all.
Yakin had no other option but to commit men forward. Defense had become an afterthought—get the attack functioning first, worry about the back line later.
In the 51st minute, down Basel's right flank, Salah and the overlapping Elneny executed a neat one-two.
Salah cut inside as Elneny sent the ball past Sidibé's defensive coverage, playing it into Salah's path. The Egyptian completed the inside movement—but found no space.
Van Dijk recovered swiftly, positioning himself directly in front. Salah could only force two more steps of rushing, exploiting half a body-width of space to attempt a curling left-footed shot toward the far post.
The ball arrowed toward the corner.
Martinez launched himself through the air, but mid-flight he'd already calculated the trajectory would take it wide. He pulled his hands back—no point conceding a corner.
Sure enough, the ball sailed past the post and out for a goal kick.
Salah ran his fingers through his curly hair, his frustration was evident. With Van Dijk's coverage, he hadn't even seen the goal properly—it was pure shooting instinct, and it had missed by some distance.
Basel's supporters didn't react with much disappointment or emotion. Throughout St. Jakob-Park, a sense of hopelessness was gradually spreading like a fog.
After their opening surge, Basel encountered the fatigue problem again. Salah could no longer beat Sidibé one-on-one. Meanwhile, Bastia's front three remained fresh, conserving energy, and waiting.
In the 57th minute, when Rothen launched a long ball from deep, sending it straight into the attacking third, Basel's fans realized with sinking hearts: their players simply couldn't keep pace anymore.
Julien had been positioned as Bastia's furthest forward channel. When Rothen released the pass, he'd still been behind the halfway line.
Basel's left-back was Park Joo-ho, the South Korean defender they'd signed from J-League side Júbilo Iwata two years ago for €550,000.
He'd been tasked with marking Julien throughout the match. When Julien wasn't at full sprint, Park could just about manage. But this time, when Julien exploded into top gear, Park was left a full stride behind in an instant.
Park buried his head and chased desperately, hoping to haul Julien down with a tactical foul but couldn't even get close enough for that.
Dragović in the center also gave everything in recovery, sprinting back with every ounce of energy he possessed. But when he closed in on Julien, he simply knocked the ball ahead and burned past him with pure pace.
Sommer saw Julien take that touch and immediately rushed off his line, charging toward the ball.
However—
At full sprint, Julien found another gear. A second acceleration.
Neither Dragović nor Sommer had anticipated Julien could accelerate again. The goalkeeper was a split-second too slow. Julien reached the ball first, touched it forward once more, and slotted it past Sommer into the empty net.
2-0.
6-1 on aggregate.
Basel had completely collapsed.
After scoring, Julien sprinted the length of the pitch toward the only patch of blue in the entire stadium where Bastia's traveling supporters stood.
He pointed directly at them, arm raised in triumph.
"JULIEN!"
"JULIEN!!"
Amidst the silence of the Basel fans, their voices rang out with startling clarity.
Bastia's teammates mobbed Julien in celebration.
Basel's players stood motionless, faces etched with dejection. If Lukaku's first-half goal had laid Basel in the coffin, Julien's strike had just hammered in the final nail.
Park Joo-ho, wearing Basel's number 3, watched the celebration with hollow eyes. He felt... nothing. His mind was still replaying that moment when Julien had left him for dead in a single stride.
Too fast.
Far too fast for him to even process.
On the touchline, Hadzibegic's mood soared. He pumped his fist powerfully, unable to contain himself as he turned to Dominique and the other staff members. "We've won! We're through!"
Dominique and the others felt their eyes misting slightly, they'd waited so long for this moment.
More important than the goal itself was the realization: Bastia right now was genuinely strong. This wasn't luck or circumstance. They were a force.
The victorious emotion rippled out in waves—from the substitutes' bench to the directors' box where Chataigner and Geronimi sat, all the way back to Corsica where Bastia supporters were watching.
Julien's goal sent them all into elation.
The stark contrast belonged to Basel's contingent—players, staff, supporters all. But this was competitive sport. There were always winners, and there were always losers.
Tonight, Bastia were the victors. Basel, the vanquished.
Yakin's mentality shifted from initial tension to an odd sense of relief. He actually felt lighter now.
When the outcome becomes inevitable, acceptance brings a strange peace. He shook his head, returned to the bench, and took a long drink of water.
Watching Bastia's ecstatic substitutes, he couldn't help feeling a twinge of envy.
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