Julien noticed they were now prioritizing protection of the penalty arc, so he switched his focus, drifting wide to stretch the shape, dragging defenders with him, creating space for teammates centrally.
He began deliberately operating from the right flank.
The tactical wrinkle paid instant dividends.
When he drove toward the byline with the ball, three Belarus defenders instinctively tracked him, due to his gravitational pull.
And in that moment, the previously impenetrable defensive line finally showed a crack down the middle.
Julien saw it.
This particular attack fizzled out as he recycled possession backward, but when France reorganized and the ball came back to his feet on the right...
Julien feinted again as if to take it all the way to the corner flag.
The moment his marker committed—snap—he cut it back square to Pogba, who'd timed his run perfectly into the channel.
Pogba understood instantly.
Without breaking stride, Pogba hammered it.
A vicious, dipping strike straight at goal.
Keeper Veremko had remained alert throughout, eyes locked on the play. The moment he saw Pogba shaping to shoot, he was already diving.
Once more, he produced heroics, palming it away.
But Pogba's shot carried such force, such pace, Veremko could only parry weakly. The ball didn't go far.
Giroud reacted like a predator, pouncing toward the rebound for the tap-in—
Just before contact, Belarus defender Martsinovich threw himself into Giroud's path. Not just his body, his hands thrashed, his legs tangled. Giroud went down before he could shoot.
"FOUL!" French players screamed in unison raising their arms.
But the referee waved them off—play on, get up: no penalty.
French players didn't wait to argue with the official. Everyone scrambled for the loose ball. Belarus players too.
Chaos erupted in the box. Bodies were everywhere, legs were swinging, desperation was mounting.
In that turmoil of confusion, every Belarus player's attention was hooked on three things: the fallen Giroud, the protesting French players, and the bouncing ball.
Fatigue and momentary distraction caused a fatal error:
Someone was unmarked.
On the right edge of the penalty arc, a massive pocket of space inexplicably opened up.
And a figure in blue had already glided silently into that space.
Julien.
After playing the pass to Pogba, he hadn't stood watching. Pure attacking instinct carried him into this defensive vacuum.
Now, as the ball pinballed out of the box deflected by who knows whose boot, it rolled directly into his path.
Julien didn't hesitate for a nanosecond.
Didn't take a touch to set himself.
Left foot. Inside of the boot. Whipped it.
Not a blind smash, this was a precisely planned curler.
The ball bent through the air like a heat-seeking missile, arcing around every scrambling defender, destined for the top corner, the absolute postage stamp.
Belarus's keeper, having just made that save from Pogba, then caught in the subsequent penalty-box melee, only registered the new danger when it was far too late.
All he could do was watch helplessly as physics took over. His lips moved in silent prayer to every god he could name.
But the gods weren't listening.
Swish.
The Net Bulged.
"BUUUUUUUUT!!!"
GOAL!
2-1!
84th minute!
Near-on a winner!
The Dinamo Stadium split instantly in half, sliced by that thunderbolt.
The French away section exploded into hysterical euphoria.
The Belarusian supporters, who seconds earlier had been celebrating another escape, fell into stunned, deathly silence.
Julien didn't immediately sprint away. He stood rooted to the spot, fists clenched tight, and released a guttural, primal ROAR that seemed to shake the stadium.
Every ounce of frustration, every blocked shot, every near-miss, it all came pouring out in that liberating scream.
Then he rolled toward the corner flag, arms spread wide toward the cameras in his signature celebration pose.
Before turning to meet the wave of blue shirts crashing toward him.
Teammates joined from all directions, it was absolute chaos.
Giroud reached him first, leaping onto Julien's back from behind, hands roughly tousling his hair while screaming into his ear: "JULIEN! You're a fucking GENIUS! GENIUS!"
Ribéry charged over laughing, hammering Julien's back with open palms, the scar on his face stretched wide with joy.
Pogba sprinted in mimicking Julien's shooting technique, then grabbed both him and Giroud in a bear hug, nearly toppling all three.
The rest piled on, a mountain of bodies, roars and howls echoing across the pitch.
This was release.
Pure, unfiltered release after eighty-plus minutes of siege warfare.
Meanwhile, the substitutes' bench had gone ballistic.
Players and coaches who'd been seated launched up simultaneously, waving towels and water bottles, stampeding to the touchline in a frenzy of embraces, screams, leaps.
An assistant coach slammed his tactical clipboard to the ground in ecstasy then immediately picked it up and hugged it tight.
The entire technical area became a agitating sea of blue, every face was stamped with disbelief and rapture.
Even Deschamps exploded.
The normally composed, ice-cool French legend abandoned all restraint.
His body snapped back first, hands clawing at the sky, then he tore down the touchline for several meters, pumping his fists and roaring, veins were bulging on his forehead.
He roared wantonly, and spun to collide chest-first with his assistant coach in a thunderous embrace that nearly knocked the man over. Deschamps pounded his back repeatedly, his face was twisted with pure elation.
The emotional outburst lasted perhaps thirty seconds.
Then Deschamps drew a deep breath, slapped his own cheeks hard, and his eyes snapped back into focus.
He bent to retrieve his clipboard, strode firmly to the touchline, cupped both hands around his mouth, and roared toward the pitch in a hoarse but sharp voice: "CONCENTRATE! THERE'S STILL MINUTES LEFT! HOLD IT! GIROUD! DROP BACK! PAUL! MARK YOUR MAN!"
Simultaneously, in the French broadcast booth, the TF1 commentator after a string of ecstatic "BUUUUUTS" launched into full-throated rapture:
"JULIEN!
The Chosen One! The King of Clutch Moments!
I cannot find words adequate to describe the shock and joy of this moment!
When the team needed a hero most desperately, when we were suffocating under pressure—it's ALWAYS this eighteen-year-old who steps forward!
He possesses a heart that transcends his years, a heart of absolute steel!
What words can possibly define him?!
Look at that strike! The elegance, the precision, the lethality of that curve!
This isn't just a spectacular winner, this is the DEFINITIVE blow that secures our fate!
This goal represents a ticket to the Brazil World Cup, now clutched firmly in our hands!
That ticket, carrying the hopes of all French football, has been fought for and WON, to a massive extent, by Julien, with performance after incredible performance, with goal after golden goal!
Let's acknowledge these jaw-dropping, history-making numbers:
Seven World Cup qualifiers. FOURTEEN GOALS.
Two goals per game average!
Do you understand what that means?
It means he's virtually carried this team through qualifying on his back alone!
Every time we've hit a wall; every time we've faced potential disaster, you can count on Julien! He IS the guarantee of victory!
This is why Deschamps trusts him unconditionally.
Because this is our CAPTAIN.
This is France's undisputed tactical fulcrum and spiritual leader!
With Julien in our ranks, we have every reason, every RIGHT to dream about next summer in Brazil!
With him, ALL miracles are possible.
The future is here and now and his name is Julien De Rocca!"
French fans across the nation unleashed their emotions in that moment:
"AHHHHHHH! JULIEN! JULIEN! JULIEN! YOU'RE A GOD! AN ACTUAL GOD!"
"HOLY SHIT! IT'S IN! A WINNER! IT'S A FUCKING WINNER!"
"BRAZIL! WE'RE GOING TO BRAZIL! JULIEN'S TAKING US TO BRAZIL!"
"DID YOU SEE THAT?! DID YOU SEE?! THAT'S OUR NUMBER 10! OUR CAPTAIN!"
"FOURTEEN GOALS IN SEVEN GAMES! WHAT KIND OF MONSTER IS HE?!"
"I LOVE YOU, JULIEN! I'LL SUPPORT YOU MY ENTIRE LIFE!"
"Who dares say we have 'Julien-dependency'?! SO, WHAT IF WE DO?! WE HAVE HIM!"
"Signing him was the greatest transfer in our club's history!"
Not just online.
At the Dinamo Stadium in Minsk itself, the perfect embodiment of heaven and hell was separated by an instant.
The Belarus players stood shell-shocked. Several defenders were slumped onto the turf inside their own box with blank eyes.
They'd held for nearly the entire match, only for one lapse in concentration to exact the cruelest price.
Manager Kandratsiuk dropped his head in defeat.
It was over.
The moment his team failed to preserve the draw; the match was finished.
His players had nothing left to mount any response.
France's celebration lasted a full minute before ending.
Walking back toward the center circle, Julien kept signaling to teammates: "Stay focused! Keep possession!"
The last thing he wanted was to score this hard-fought goal only to concede a sloppy equalizer.
His fears were proved to be unfounded.
Belarus had expended everything on defense. They genuinely lacked the capacity to threaten the French goal again.
And France remained ruthlessly pragmatic.
After Julien's near-winner, they didn't push greedily for more,instead, they controlled the tempo, keeping the ball.
Belarus tried half-heartedly to press, but couldn't win possession from France's superior technicians. In doing so, they only exposed gaps that nearly allowed France to add a second.
Time ticked toward the final whistle.
Meanwhile, in Spain...
Vicente del Bosque, who'd just managed his team through a friendly against Chile the previous night, sat in his office watching this match.
As Julien's goal hit the net, his body which had been leaning casually against his chair slowly tilted forward until his elbows rested on his knees, hands clasped against his forehead.
That goal landed like a precise body blow, shattering the last flicker of hope he'd harbored.
He held that position for ten full seconds, then slumped heavily back into his seat, releasing a long, weary sigh filled with exhaustion and resignation.
He removed his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose forcefully, as if trying to massage away the reality before him as the road to Brazil now led only through the playoff route.
Moreover, Spain weren't the invincible force they'd once been.
Last night's 2-2 draw with Chile, salvaged by a late equalizer, had made that richly clear.
Del Bosque understood the truth now: lack of a reliable goalscorer up front, an aging midfield core, persistent defensive frailties—Spain had problems across all three lines. His job had become immensely difficult.
Of course, there was one piece of good news.
Spain were about to welcome a prolific striker.
During the summer window, Atlético Madrid had sold star forward Radamel Falcao to Monaco for €60 million, causing concern about the team's form.
But Diego Simeone's side defied expectations—six matches into La Liga, they remained perfect with six wins, scoring eighteen goals, demonstrating formidable attacking potency. They'd also opened their Champions League campaign with a 3-1 victory over Zenit.
These impressive results helped Atlético fans forget Falcao, as the player wearing number 19, Diego Costa emerged as the new king of the Calderón.
His seven goals in six games tied him with Messi on top of the La Liga scoring charts.
The Brazilian-born forward's performances had caught the Spanish federation's attention. Next summer, he'd return to his homeland for the World Cup, not representing Brazil, but wearing the red of Spain.
The federation had already approached Diego Costa, who'd expressed enthusiasm about playing for Spain. Following his positive response, Spain formally requested FIFA approval to call him up.
If everything proceeded smoothly, once FIFA's paperwork cleared, Del Bosque could include Diego Costa for the final World Cup qualifier on October 11th.
And for the playoff campaign.
Peep!
The television broadcasted the final whistle yanking Del Bosque fully back to the present.
The score remained 1-2.
France had qualified for the finals.
Del Bosque switched off the noisy television, gathered his things, and rose from his desk.
Outside the training complex, thick night had fallen.
It felt symbolic, like Spain's national team prospects.
Uncertain, Unclear.
Dinamo Stadium, Minsk
The final whistle blew.
Accompanied by roars and cheers from the away section.
The French TF1 commentator spoke with tremendous emotion: "It's over! We've won!
The ticket to the Brazil World Cup is firmly in our grasp!
Tonight, I dedicate all praise to Julien.
When the match was deadlocked, when time was slipping away, this eighteen-year-old changed everything with one thunderous strike.
Seven matches, fourteen goals!
This isn't coincidence—it's the fruit of talent and dedication combined.
But even more moving is the leadership he displays in critical moments.
The greater the pressure, the calmer he becomes. The tougher the situation, the brighter he shines.
From Bastia to Liverpool, from Ligue 2 to the Premier League, he's proven his worth time and again.
But tonight, he showed all of France something profound: with him, infinite possibilities exist.
Next summer in Brazil, that passionate land will witness Les Bleus led by their youngest-ever captain roar loud enough to shake the world!
Tonight belongs to France!
Tomorrow, our journey reaches for the stars!
The Alps tremble with joy! The Seine sings in celebration!
We. Are. Coming."
On the pitch, French players didn't run wild in celebration, just moved toward each other, embracing firmly, slapping backs.
This was an away ground, after all. Restraint was appropriate.
But sweat and smiles mingled on every face.
Julien stood in place, drew a deep breath then Giroud crashed into him first, wrapping him in a tight hug.
"Brilliant work, brother!" Giroud shouted in his ear.
Ribéry walked over, tapped them both. Everything was unsaid, understood.
Deschamps stood on the touchline, offering each departing player a fist-bump.
When Julien passed, he gripped his shoulder firmly, his eyes were full of approval.
The squad made a brief acknowledgment toward their traveling supporters before heading quickly down the tunnel.
The Dressing Room
The door closed behind them. Instantly, jubilant shouts erupted.
"BRAZIL! WE'RE GOING TO BRAZIL!" Giroud's booming voice filled the room as he hoisted a water bottle like a trophy.
The late-blooming striker was finally going to fulfill his World Cup dream.
Matuidi cranked up pounding music. Pogba danced to the beat, whipping his towel overhead.
Ribéry laughed loudly, shouting in French: "I KNEW IT! I knew this kid could do it!"
Julien found himself surrounded. Valbuena yelled: "That shot was UNREAL! You literally saved French football!"
Even the usually quiet Kanté beamed from the edge of the group, applauding.
Deschamps stood in the doorway, listening to his disciples' celebrations. Finally, he allowed himself to drop the stern mask and laugh freely.
"JULIEN! SAY SOMETHING!" someone called.
Julien climbed onto a bench, water still dripping from his face: "This is only the beginning! See you in Brazil!"
"SEE YOU IN BRAZIL!!"
The room erupted again. Everyone knew this young squad hungered to make history.
Post-Match Press Conference
Deschamps faced the gathered media, visibly excited but maintaining his composure:
"This was a hard-fought victory. Belarus showed tremendous defensive resolve at home, but our players maintained patience and discipline throughout, especially during the stalemate. The whole team didn't panic, with which I'm very satisfied."
When discussion turned to Julien's performance, Deschamps leaned forward slightly, his tone became more emphatic:
"Regarding Julien—I've noticed some people still discussing this so-called 'dependency syndrome.' Let me be very clear: having a player like Julien is every manager's dream. And what's the result of depending on him? Seven matches, fourteen goals, and a direct ticket to Brazil! That's the result!"
He fielded numerous other questions, carefully addressing each. Finally, he concluded with a statement that would dominate the next day's headlines:
"As for our World Cup prospects—you take things one step at a time. Qualifying today is just the first step. This squad is young. We have emerging talents like Julien and Paul, but also experienced veterans providing balance. In Brazil, we'll show the world a brand-new face of French football.
One last thing I want to emphasize: We will continue building our tactics around Julien, because that's how you win matches. Next summer in Brazil, you'll see a more mature Julien De Rocca, and an even stronger French national team. Thank you."
Deschamps rose from his seat.
As he turned to leave, his jacket swept behind him like a victor's banner being furled.
An hour later, while all of France celebrated, a plane departed Minsk bound for London.
Julien, Giroud, and the other Premier League-based players had completed their international duty and would now return to club commitments.
Julien gazed through the window at the lights of the city slowly disappearing into the night.
His mind had already shifted to the next challenge: the double derby.
The fixture between these two clubs represented the greatest clash in English football history. This was the traditional English derby in every sense.
And right now, both teams stood at their own crossroads.
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Thanks for your support!