The commentator's words felt almost prophetic.
Just three short minutes later—Crack!
The entire Mané Garrincha Stadium erupted in an uproar!
At that moment, Pogba had the ball at midfield. He scanned the pitch, then threaded it through to Julien in the centre.
The instant Julien received it, his body turned slightly, his eyes swept across Nigeria's back line. Five Nigerian midfielders were clustered together in defence, but they had never formed a tight defensive link.
There were clear gaps between them.
Plenty of bodies—but no real defensive effect!
Julien caught this subtle flaw in an instant. Without a moment's hesitation, he drew the ball in close with a light touch, controlled it in front of him, and drove forward decisively!
Mikel, the nearest defender, stretched out his long legs to try to intercept—but Julien flicked the ball aside with a nimble touch, his body was shifting with it, and slipped free of Mikel's tangle with ease.
That near-instantaneous piece of skill drew a gasp from the entire crowd!
Watching Julien dribble was pure pleasure.
Right behind him, midfielder Onazi rushed to cover, trying to close in from the side.
Julien suddenly accelerated, changing direction with his feet at the same instant—the ball seemed to come alive under his control, slipping clean through the gap between Onazi's legs.
At the same time, Julien's body swayed and dodged, avoiding Onazi's grasping hands.
He kept the ball steady at his feet.
Onazi was left behind completely!
Musa saw what was happening and rushed forward in a panic, spreading his arms to block the passing lane, trying to cut off Julien's advance.
Julien easily made a feint to the left.
He drew Musa's weight the wrong way then suddenly cut hard to the right, accelerating, and slipped past him with ease.
Musa had actually been watching closely for Julien's feints. But Julien's fake was simply too convincing!
His body moved to block before he could stop it and he'd been sold completely!
On the other side, forward Emenike scrambled back to help defend, also trying to cut off Julien's path. He'd learned his lesson—he wasn't watching the ball anymore; he was watching the man.
His thinking was simple: forget the ball, just mark the man.
But then—Julien's feet never slowed. He lifted his head slightly to read the situation, then flicked the ball up with a delicate touch, sending it over Emenike's head as his body surged forward at the same time.
He gave Emenike no chance to close the distance at all.
He blew past him with sheer speed, brought the ball back down under control and by now, Julien had already left four defenders in his wake!
Crack!
The crowd was on its feet, stunned.
A large number of fans clutched their heads, mouths hanging open—clearly none of them had imagined Julien could break through the entire line like this. It was staggering.
By now, Moses as the closest defender left had been pushed to the brink.
He threw everything he had into closing Julien down, trying to break up the play at the edge of the box, but Julien gave him no opening at all.
A second burst of speed!
Drawing on astonishing explosiveness, he accelerated again, nudging the ball gently along the ground so it slid past Moses's flank as he twisted his body to slip past the challenge.
Julien had beaten five men in a row!
He cut successfully into the edge of the box, the entire sequence was flowing together seamlessly—every change of direction, every burst of speed, every feint, showcasing his dribbling, his explosive power, his body control, all were on full display.
Having shaken off the last defender—Chaos had broken out in front of Julien.
Two Nigerian centre-backs scrambled back to cover the near post, while Giroud, Griezmann, and the rest of France's forwards jostled inside the box, tangled together, forming a makeshift "wall" of bodies.
Julien adjusted his stance slightly, steadied himself and suddenly paused.
Through the chaos of defenders and his own teammates crowding the box, he struck the ball, decisively.
Thump!
Curling it with the inside of his right foot, he lofted a perfect chip toward goal!
The ball carried a strange, bending arc, threading through the gaps in the crowd of bodies, streaking straight for the far corner—fast, and precise in its angle!
Enyeama hadn't even reacted in time.
By the time he dove for it, he was already far too late!
The ball crashed into the net!
Goal!
2–0!
Julien, on his own, had beaten five defenders and scored a solo goal from start to finish, stretching the lead!
The instant the ball hit the net; Mané Garrincha Stadium erupted into pandemonium!
The French fans, already boiling over, leapt to their feet, waving French flags, roaring and shouting at the top of their lungs!
"Julien! Julien!!"
The chant was deafening, cutting through the thick, muggy air, echoing across the entire Mané Garrincha Stadium.
Even neutral fans rose to their feet and applauded, waving their arms, cheering for that stunning, unforgettable goal—some of them were jumping up and down in sheer excitement.
To witness a goal like that, live, in person—the ticket had been worth every cent.
On the pitch—France's players had completely lost their minds. Pogba, Giroud, Griezmann, all of them, sprinted toward Julien without a second thought.
One by one they piled onto him, wrapping him in tight embraces.
Their faces were nothing but adoration.
That goal was the purest expression of Julien's individual brilliance—him alone, tearing the opposition's defence wide open through sheer will.
Julien broke free of his teammates' embrace, threw his arms open, and saluted the French fans in the stands.
Sweat streamed down his cheeks, but it couldn't dim the light coming off him.
The Nigerian players stood frozen where they were, faces full of disbelief—some with their hands on their hips, some with their heads hung low, their eyes full of shock.
That run of five beaten defenders, that goal, it had left them all stunned.
Five men had been marking him, and he'd torn through them like it was nothing. There was no arguing with that kind of individual ability.
Enyeama slowly bent down to retrieve the ball, shaking his head, his eyes were full of frustration he couldn't quite hide.
But even he couldn't help but be won over by how brilliant it had been.
Enyeama played in Ligue 1 himself—of course he'd heard the legends about Julien. Against an opponent like that, there was truly nothing he could have done.
In the broadcast booth—Alphonse's voice was thick with excitement, his commentary nearly choking with emotion: "My God! Julien! Julien! Five men beaten! He's done it!
One man, alone, breaking through five Nigerian defenders!
This is the absolute pinnacle of individual ability!
This is Julien!
No fancy combination play—just him, on his own, tearing the defence apart and chipping it home!
He's terrifying! He is the king of the football pitch!
This is the ultimate individual-hero's goal!!
This goal doesn't just widen France's lead—it's already a defining moment of this entire World Cup!
Julien has conquered every fan in this Mané Garrincha Stadium, and proven his greatness to the entire world.
And this solo performance of his—it will make sure everyone remembers this midday in Brasília, remembers the French star who wrote his own legend through sheer individual brilliance..."
Meanwhile:
France.
Bastia.
It was evening there.
The Bastia sunset spilled across the Mediterranean coastline, washing the Sunset Café in a warm glow of amber and orange.
The wooden tables and chairs were bathed in gold by the dying light, and the walls were covered in football posters.
The most prominent one showed Julien in a Bastia jersey, hoisting a trophy over his head—the iconic moment from when he'd led the club to the Ligue 1 title. It was this city's pride, forever.
The tavern was already packed to the rafters.
Fans sat shoulder to shoulder; their eyes locked on the big screen.
Every single one of them was shouting, cheering—for Julien, far away in Brasília, and for the French national team.
The moment the screen showed Julien cutting through five men from the centre and chipping it home through the crowd—
The once-rowdy tavern exploded into deafening cheers!
It felt like the roof might blow clean off!
Fans leapt to their feet, waving beer glasses, pounding on tables, their roars and cheers were tangling together, drowning out the television commentary entirely.
"God, that's classic Julien dribbling again! So damn beautiful!" A young fan with short hair, wearing a Bastia jersey, shouted, his face was flushed with excitement. "He's still the strongest Julien out there! He's never changed, not once!"
Beside him, a middle-aged fan, his eyes rimmed red, downed his drink in one go and shouted, "Feels like Julien's been gone from Bastia forever—like a whole century's passed. But when you really think about it, it's only been a year."
Someone clapped him on the shoulder. "Yeah, but what he left us with—it runs deep. Half a year to get us promoted, a year to win us the Ligue 1 title and the Europa League. He's Bastia's legend!"
"No matter how long he's gone, no matter where he plays—he'll always be Bastia's captain. Always be our pride. And he's the backbone of the French national team too!"
On the television, Julien's goal replayed over and over.
The fans' cheering never let up for a moment.
Someone shouted "Long live Julien!" Someone else yelled, "Julien, Bastia will always be waiting for you to come home!"
Some people were hugging each other, crying.
To the people of Bastia, Julien had long since become more than just a player. He was this small town's hope, the brightest light of their youth.
Julien had spent only a year and a half at Bastia—and in that time, he'd created a miracle.
The moment he arrived, he led a club stuck in the second division to promotion within half a year, and picked up the Coupe de France along the way, almost as an afterthought.
The following year, he tore through everything in his path, leading the club to both the Ligue 1 title and the Europa League title—completing the leap from second-division club to double champion.
That record alone was enough to make him the greatest legend in Bastia's history.
That bond—was already etched into the bones of every single person in Bastia.
Behind the bar, the owner, Bertrand, leaned against the counter, eyes on the screen with a look of contentment on his face.
Once the fans' cheering had settled a little, he turned to his assistant, Marite, who was tidying up glasses beside him. "Marite, that anise I asked you to order—did it come through?"
Marite paused what she was doing and nodded, smiling. "It's all set, Monsieur Bertrand. It's already on its way. Should arrive at the tavern within two weeks at the latest."
Bertrand nodded slightly, his eyes drifting back to Julien celebrating on the screen. "Bien.
Do you remember what my old man was like, back in the day?
Back then, right here in this tavern, he made a whole room full of anise liqueur. And when Julien led us to the title, I took every last bottle of that and handed it out to everyone—right outside the Stade Armand Cesari. I still remember that scene like it was yesterday."
He paused; a smile spread across his lips. "Now I'm going to do just like my old man did. If France wins this World Cup, I'm going to make a whole room full of anise liqueur—and it won't matter if you're a regular here or just a neighbour from down the street, everyone's coming in for a glass. We're going to celebrate our hero properly.
Celebrate Julien. Celebrate the French national team!"
A flicker of anticipation crossed Marite's eyes. "It'll happen, Monsieur Bertrand. Julien's this strong—France is bound to win it all. And when that day comes, this tavern's going to be packed wall to wall, everyone here cheering for Julien, cheering for the French national team."
Inside the tavern, the fans' cheers went on and on.
On the television, Julien's celebration played over and over, and the setting sun poured through the windows, washing over every single excited face.
The Bastia sunset stayed gentle as ever. The party at the Sunset Café showed no sign of stopping.
Time passed.
Soon—less than ten minutes remained on the clock, and Nigeria spent every second of it just trying to hold on.
Peep!
The half-time whistle rang out crisp and clear across Mané Garrincha Stadium, the referee raising his arm to signal the end of the first half.
The score stood at 2–0.
Powered by Julien's goal and assist, France had firm control of the match, heading into the break with a two-goal cushion.
In the sweltering air, the French fans' cheers kept rolling on, wave after wave.
Nigeria's players trudged toward the tunnel, heads down. Head coach Keshi walked with his brow furrowed, deep in thought, trying to work out some kind of adjustment to make at halftime and claw back some ground.
Julien walked among his French teammates.
They kept clapping him on the shoulder, congratulating him, one after another—there was no question he'd been the brightest star on the pitch in that first half.
In the 22nd minute, he'd dropped deep to draw defenders and threaded a chipped assist for Giroud's header, breaking the deadlock;
In the 37th minute, on his own, he'd beaten five Nigerian defenders and chipped it home from a tight angle through the crowd—one goal, one assist, a flawless first-half performance that had handed France a commanding lead.
Meanwhile, Alphonse's voice was still crackling with energy. "Half-time! 2–0! France firmly in control!
And every bit of it comes down to one man—Julien!
My God, he's been perfect!
In just thirty-seven minutes of the first half, he's already recorded a goal and an assist! He's dominated this match through sheer ability!
This Julien—there's nothing he can't do!
We can see it clearly—France has controlled the tempo of this entire first half. Nigeria's been suffocated, forced onto the back foot, stuck purely on defence. Their entire defensive structure has already been torn to shreds by the combination of Julien, Oliver, and Paul Pogba.
Nigeria's tried to make adjustments, but they simply cannot find an answer for Julien.
Right now, France leads 2–0, with a two-goal cushion at the half—more than enough to give them total control of this match!
Based on how things stand, France is well on its way to the quarterfinals!
For Nigeria to turn this around in the remaining forty-five minutes? That's next to impossible!
Julien has already thrown open the door to victory for us—and I believe France will hold onto this advantage in the second half, that Julien will keep this hot form of his going, and lead France safely through to the quarterfinals, one step closer to the World Cup trophy!
Cheer for Julien!
Cheer for France!"
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