Paris
Like countless little street-corner bars, Le Sang Bleu was erupting with joy as the first half came to an end.
The French tricolour on the wall seemed to ripple with the fans' ardent roars.
The whole bar was cheering, shouting, passionate with noise.
None of it cooled for the halftime break—every face was flushed with excitement, spilling out past the doors and windows onto the street.
On the television screen, the highlights of the first half were playing on a loop.
Almost every clip was of Julien.
After all, all three goals had come from him.
Someone pounded the table so hard the beer glasses rattled and clinked. Someone else roared "Julien!" and "Allez la France!" at the top of their lungs.
Still others were on their feet, jumping, laughing, letting every bit of their excitement loose.
The whole bar was one roaring wave of celebration!
"My God! Julien is unstoppable! Two straight hat-tricks—this is nothing short of a miracle!" A fan in a No. 10 Julien jersey raised his beer glass high, his voice was booming loud enough to cut through the din around him. "This is our new Zidane! No—he hits harder than Zidane ever did!
Zidane was a midfield maestro, but Julien—Julien can win a match on his own. With him out there, what do we possibly have to worry about?
He's our idol, the idol of all of France. Right now, his name carries more weight in this country than the President's!
Walk down any street and you'll see his poster. Even the kids are copying his moves. Nobody else could bring the French people together the way he does!"
The words had barely left his mouth before the fans around him were nodding along, agreeing.
"Exactly! Who would've thought this young French squad could play like this? Solid on defence, sharp on attack—Kanté's a wall in midfield, Pogba's distribution through the centre has been excellent, and up front, Julien, Giroud, and Griezmann link up like they've played together for years! Flawless!"
Someone lifted his beer, took a swig, and said with emotion, "Before the match I was worried. With Franck out injured, I figured our attack would take a hit—the man's one of our creative engines, after all. But I never imagined Julien would be this good. He's carried the entire French attack on his own. Two hat-tricks in a row—that scoring rate is terrifying. With him out there, we haven't even missed Franck."
In the crowd, a group of fans in Bastia jerseys stood out.
They huddled together with pride shown across their faces. One of them rose to his feet and shouted, "We knew it all along! We knew how strong this French team was, and we knew Julien's quality before anyone else did!
He carried Bastia—our Bastia—through one battle after another, to the Ligue 1 title and the Europa League, and he made it a legend.
Then he went to England, and he carried Liverpool to the Premier League treble, and he proved himself all over again!
And now—now he's carrying France on the biggest stage in the world, and he's going to carry us to the World Cup trophy too!"
"Damn right!" another Bastia fan cut in immediately. "Julien has never once let us down. Not at Bastia, not at Liverpool, and not here at the World Cup in Brazil either!"
Their words set the whole bar alight.
The cheering surged back up to fever pitch.
"Julien!"
"The World Cup belongs to France!!"
Someone slapped the table and shouted, "I always thought this team needed one player who could carry the whole weight of a trophy run and now we have him. Julien is that player!
He doesn't just score. He pulls the whole team together. A side with this much defence, this much attack, this much unity—this team can absolutely go all the way!
He's going to lead us to a miracle. I know it!"
"Champions!"
"We're going to be champions!!"
Glass after glass went down, and the alcohol had long since gone to everyone's heads.
It took nothing at all—a single sentence could set off another roar.
Halftime ticked away, but the fever in the bar never once let up.
Amid the cheering and shouting, someone no one could say who started up the familiar strains of "La Marseillaise." A few scattered voices at first, and then, almost at once, it swelled into a full, thunderous chorus.
Every eye in the room burned with the same aggressive hope.
They sang together, raising their glasses in celebration, certain—utterly certain—that under Julien's lead, this young French team would forge a glory all their own at this World Cup, and carry the trophy home to France!!
Slowly, the broadcast cut to the players' tunnel at Arena Fonte Nova Stadium.
The second half was about to begin!
The players walked out onto the pitch.
Arena Fonte Nova Stadium thundered to life once more.
The atmosphere was as electric as ever.
Both sides quickly gathered at the centre circle, and at the referee's whistle, the second half was officially underway.
After the halftime adjustments, Switzerland stuck to their parked-bus tactics, unwilling to budge.
France simply carried the rhythm they'd built at the end of the first half straight into the second, in no hurry to force the issue—instead, they kept a firm grip on possession.
Pogba and Kanté traded passes through the midfield, patiently probing, occasionally slipping a short ball through to link up with the forwards.
Julien drifted along the front line, sometimes dropping deep to collect the ball and thread it forward, sometimes darting in behind to pin the Swiss back line, carving out space for his teammates.
Griezmann and Giroud cut in and out from the flanks, pulling and stretching Switzerland's defensive shape, hunting for any crack in the wall.
Up in the stands, the French fans stayed just as loud, just as fired up.
The Swiss fans, by contrast, had gone quiet—all they could do now was cheer softly for their team and pray the defence held, offering the odd faint round of applause whenever a player pulled off a clean interception.
On the touchline, Deschamps studied the shape of the game, glanced at the clock, and decided it was about time for a substitution.
He gestured toward the bench, signalling for a few substitutes to start warming up.
Rotation was necessary.
Partly to let the starters rest and conserve their bodies, to keep injuries at bay; and partly to let the reserves get a feel for the match rhythm, to prepare them for the knockout rounds ahead.
Injuries were nearly impossible to completely avoid.
Deschamps needed to be sure that if anyone went down, there'd be someone ready to step in which meant the substitutes needed to stay sharp too.
The substitutes were on their feet instantly, jogging over to the warm-up area on the sideline, stretching, jogging in place, going through their preparations in careful order.
Their eyes kept flicking back toward the pitch, waiting for the call.
They were also full of anticipation.
Who wouldn't want to step onto a World Cup pitch?
Who wouldn't want their family and friends watching, back home, seeing them play in a World Cup?
French commentator Alphonse chimed in around then. "Looks like the French players are starting to warm up on the sideline—it seems like Deschamps is about to make a change. I'd guess he's bringing Julien off, letting him get some rest. What a run this has been across these two matches! Get some rest, keep that form up..."
Just as the substitutes were warming up, the situation on the pitch suddenly shifted.
Griezmann picked up the ball out on the left in the attacking third and tried to burst past the Swiss defence. In a panic, the Swiss defender lunged in to try to intercept the ball, but instead sent Griezmann sprawling to the turf, not far outside the edge of the box.
Peep!
The referee's whistle sounded immediately.
He signalled a foul against Switzerland, then jogged over and marked out a circle on the grass—France had won a free kick in a prime attacking position.
A roar went up!
The whole stadium erupted at once, French fans were leaping to their feet.
The cheering rang out again across the ground, every eye was lit up with anticipation!
Everyone knew it: the spot was perfect as it was close to goal and at just the right angle.
And there was no question who'd be taking it.
Julien, in hot form.
Whether in Ligue 1 or the Premier League, Julien had a track record of scoring straight from free kicks.
Up in the stands, the fans began chanting his name in unison—"Julien! Julien!"
Sure enough.
Julien walked slowly forward and set the ball down.
He bent to make small adjustments to its position, then glanced over at where his teammates stood.
Near the penalty box, the Swiss lined up their wall, the goalkeeper was constantly shuffling them into position, and looked rattled now.
The French players did their part too, working to block the keeper's line of sight.
In that moment, every eye in the stadium, every camera, was locked on Julien. Everyone in the crowd was silently asking the same question: is he really going to score again?
Was Julien about to complete four goals in a single match—a Poker—and pull off an even more staggering miracle?
The Swiss players' faces had turned grim.
Benaglio stood on his line, knees bent slightly, eyes fixed hard on Julien, tension across every line of his face.
On the touchline, Hitzfeld had his fists clenched tight, brow furrowed, able to do nothing but silently pray the free kick would sail wide of the goal.
The air over Arena Fonte Nova Stadium tightened once more.
A four-goal match—a target that should have been all but out of reach—suddenly felt within arm's reach, after two straight hat-tricks of superman like form from Julien.
Peep!
The referee's whistle blew—the kick could be taken.
Julien stepped back a few paces, putting distance between himself and the ball, then lifted his head slightly, eyes burning with focus.
The entire crowd held its breath. You could almost hear every heartbeat in the stadium.
Then, suddenly, Julien exploded forward—two quick steps, and then he struck it, hard!
Thwack!
The ball spun fiercely off his foot, carving a beautiful arc through the air, sailing over the Swiss wall and straight toward the top-left corner of the goal—the dead zone!
Blazing pace!
A wicked angle!
Benaglio threw everything he had into the leap, stretching for the save but his fingertips didn't even brush the edge of the ball.
All he could do was watch, helpless, as it slammed into the back of the net!
Swish!
The ball was in!
4–0!
"GOAL! JULIEN!"
"JULIEN!!"
A deafening roar exploded through the stadium, swallowing Arena Fonte Nova Stadium whole!
The French fans lost themselves completely!
Jumping, screaming, embracing each other in tears.
Chanting Julien's name over and over, the sound rolling on and on.
Sheer, unrestrained madness!
Julien spun around, threw his arms wide, and sprinted straight for the stand packed with French fans.
He leapt high into the air, fists clenched, and let out one fierce, powerful roar.
Then he turned to face the stands, face to face with the cameras, and spread his arms—unabashedly, gloriously wide.
But in that moment, no one thought he was showing off. Everyone was too busy cheering for him.
Cameras clicked away, shutter after shutter, capturing the moment for good.
His teammates came sprinting over, one after another, swarming him, wrapping him in a crushing group embrace.
High-fives all around, hugs all around.
Everyone was screaming right along with him, just as wild.
"That was gorgeous!"
"A Poker! Unbelievable! Julien, you absolute beast!"
Even the players on the bench were on their feet, arms pumping, roaring their approval for Julien.
Deschamps threw a fist into the air, hard.
Turning to embrace his assistant coaches in celebration, his foot slipped out from under him, and he went straight down onto his knees.
Meanwhile, Alphonse was shouting into the mic, half in disbelief, "We just witnessed a miracle! Friends, we have just witnessed a miracle in World Cup history!
Julien!
Straight off a free kick!
A Poker—four goals in one match!
He's put four past Switzerland in this game alone, and with the three from the last match, that's seven goals in just two games!
It's not human!
The man is a Legend of football!"
Alphonse's words came tumbling out at breakneck speed, his voice cracking, and he kept repeating himself, unable to stop marvelling at what he'd just seen: "The record for most goals in a single World Cup match is five and Julien already has four in this one!
Just one more, and he'll equal it—maybe even break it!
Who could have imagined it—a young French captain, showing this kind of unanswerable firepower on the biggest stage in the sport. Seven goals in two matches. A scoring rate like that has never been seen before—not once, not by anyone!
And we have to bring up a name here—Fontaine!
Another legendary French striker—at the 1958 World Cup in Sweden, Just Fontaine set the single-tournament record of thirteen goals. That record has stood, untouched, for sixty years, and no one has come close to it since!
And now, Julien—this young captain, also French—has scored seven goals in just two matches. His form right now is frightening.
Fellow countryman of Fontaine's, Julien is walking the very same path his predecessor once carved out and with performances of this calibre, he's raising a strong challenge to that record!
Look across the entire history of the sport—no player has ever posted numbers this terrifying on the World Cup stage. Julien is the one player alive with a real shot at surpassing Fontaine, at rewriting the history of French football, at forging an entirely new World Cup legend!
Could he really be about to do it—carry the pride of an entire nation and shatter a record that's stood untouched for decades?
I think—
I think we can start to let ourselves believe it might actually happen..."
At that moment, Deschamps, on the touchline, having finished celebrating, began to settle back down, thinking clearly again.
He'd been planning to make a substitution—he never expected Julien to answer with a gorgeous free kick and add another goal to the tally. This kind of performance had long since blown past anything he'd expected.
He knew, of course, about the World Cup record for goals in a single match.
He was only wondering, now—should he take Julien off?
Should he let Julien stay on and chase the record, or pull him now and let him rest properly?
He was torn.
Not far away, the old Swiss manager Hitzfeld slowly lowered his head, nothing but helplessness was on his face.
A 4–0 scoreline. Julien's four goals. Every last hope Switzerland had walked in with and shattered completely. All that was left was to accept the crushing defeat.
He wasn't torn about anything anymore.
All that remained now was to wait for the final whistle, to wait for the loss to become official.
And then to pick themselves back up and fight the next match.
He hoped, only, that this defeat wouldn't drag down Switzerland's morale going forward.
"Let's hope so..."
The old manager murmured to himself.
Soon, Julien, surrounded by his celebrating teammates, brought the celebration to a close.
He walked smiling back toward the centre circle. And on the touchline, Deschamps had made up his mind.
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