"Come on, give me a hand with this," Bertrand called out, his voice echoing through the stone-walled cellar.
Bertrand handed Modoso the heavy-duty flashlight. Then he began his search among the barrels of pastis to find the most special one.
"Move quickly, but for God's sake, be careful not to break anything down here," Modoso cautioned as he directed the flashlight's golden beam, illuminating the way for the other Ultras members who had went down.
With two days remaining until Bastia's potentially historic match against Châteauroux, Bertrand had made the decision to bring out old Bell's legendary barrel of pastis ahead of schedule.
"My father Jacques traveled all the way to Vietnam specifically for this barrel," Bertrand explained. "That country was incredibly difficult to enter back in those days. Jacques got delayed for weeks in Myanmar, stuck in some godforsaken border town, all because he was absolutely obsessed with finding the perfect star anise."
Bertrand carefully dusted off the barrel with a feather duster that had belonged to his father, then leaned in close to inhale the wood's complex aroma.
His eyes closed as he seemed to transport himself back decades, remembering those afternoons when old Bell had patiently taught him the distillation.
Jacques Bertnard had possessed a distilling method that no other craftsman in Corsica could replicate.
"According to his philosophy," Bertrand continued, "although star anise grows abundantly all along our Mediterranean coastline, those common varieties produce nothing more than ordinary pastis—adequate for tourists, perhaps, but insufficient for true connoisseurs.
Only star anise harvested specifically from the mountains around Lang Son in northern Vietnam could create the finest pastis, the most unique recipe imaginable. And it absolutely had to be star anise from that precise region—nowhere else would do."
Recognizing that Modoso and the other Ultras members couldn't fully appreciate the intricacies of traditional distillation techniques, Bertrand smiled knowingly and gestured toward the barrel. "Listen, you'll experience something truly extraordinary tomorrow night."
"Haha! Now that I can definitely understand!" Modoso exclaimed, unconsciously licking his lips in anticipation.
Pastis was the unforgettable taste for fans throughout the Mediterranean coastal regions.
When this legendary barrel of pastis from 1981 finally emerged from its long sleep and saw natural daylight again after years of patient aging in the cellar's depths, those gathered around—Modoso and his fellow believers—seemed to instinctively detect that rich, intoxicatingly complex aroma that promised an experience unlike any commercial pastis they'd ever encountered.
The scent was heavy and stimulating, carrying scents of Mediterranean herbs, Vietnamese spices, and something indefinably magical that could only come from decades of careful aging.
After closing his eyes and taking a deep, appreciative breath that seemed to draw the essence directly into his soul, Modoso exhaled a long, satisfied sigh. "Absolutely perfect! Bertrand, I'm already looking forward to tomorrow night more than I've looked forward to anything in my entire life!"
Bertrand's face creased into a knowing smile, but his expression quickly turned serious. "Looking forward to it is wonderful, but don't get too excited about quantity. Everyone gets one small sip at most—we need to ensure more people can taste this miracle, and we absolutely must save a substantial portion for the French Cup celebration."
"Of course, you're absolutely right," Modoso agreed without hesitation.
Rather than waste precious time on further discussion, Modoso immediately waved for his colleagues to begin adding the other ceremonial elements that would transform this simple barrel into a mobile shrine worthy of their cause.
A traditional Corsican hand cart, lovingly restored and painted entirely in brilliant blue with designs featuring iconic Bastia symbols—the club crest, the island's outline, stylized representations of the Mediterranean waves—waited nearby like a chariot prepared for a royal parade.
Working together, they carefully secured the precious barrel onto the cart, using rope and canvas padding to ensure their treasure would survive the journey through Bastia's cobblestone streets.
Then Modoso produced a small, sharp knife and began the process of carving three lines of text in the traditional Corsican language directly onto the barrel's surface:
"French Cup Champions May 23, 1981"
"Old Bell's Last Drop of Sweat"
"Rekindled by Julien De Rocca 31 Years Later"
After completing the carving with attention to detail, Modoso applied bright blue paint over each line of text, ensuring the words would be clearly visible to everyone they encountered during their pilgrimage through the city.
"Perfect! Now we begin!"
With Modoso's wave, the entire group erupted into laughter mixed with determination as they began dragging the cart, officially commencing their transport of the barrel through Bastia's streets.
Modoso placed himself at the front of the march, his voice carrying across the narrow alleyways as he shouted with intense passion: "Old Bell's final barrel! Free drinks courtesy of Bertrand! On César's championship night, we celebrate history!"
BOOM! BOOM-boom! BOOM!
The Ultras members had brought traditional drums, creating a rhythm that seemed to pulse with the collective heartbeat of the entire city. Others lifted their voices in passionate chorus, singing "Avà Bastia" and "The Song of Julien"—unofficial anthems that every true supporter knew by heart.
Old Bell's championship barrel traveled slowly along Bastia's streets, progressing from the narrow lanes of the old quarter to the broader commercial avenues, and finally toward the silhouette of Stade César in the distance.
Throughout this journey, hundreds upon hundreds of Bastia supporters emerged from their homes, shops, and cafés to join Modoso's growing march.
Recognizing the potential for chaos, riot police were deployed urgently from their barracks, but rather than dispersing the crowd, they found themselves serving as unofficial escorts, shepherding the celebration all the way to the stadium's gates while maintaining a distance from the ceremony.
The barrel was ceremoniously placed at the main stadium entrance, where it would remain under constant watch from devoted volunteers who would take shifts ensuring its safety from this moment until the final whistle decided their fate.
Through this moving march, old Bell's dying wish—that his finest creation should celebrate Bastia's ultimate triumph—had spread like wildfire to thousands of hearts throughout the city.
Bertrand had quietly separated himself from the joyous crowd during the march's final stages. Now he sat alone on a stone bench in a secluded corner of the old quarter, tears streaming freely down his cheeks as decades of suppressed emotion finally found release.
"Jacques," He whispered to the Mediterranean wind, "can you see this from wherever you are? We're actually about to win the championship... after all these years of waiting..."
The championship! The elusive championship that Bastia had pursued through decades of false dawns, near-misses, and heartbreaking disappointments!
At Bastia's official pre-match press conference, held in the stadium's cramped media room, Coach Hadzibegic faced the journalists with visible tension etched across his face. Despite his years of experience, the magnitude of the moment was clearly affecting even this seasoned professional.
"This represents an extraordinarily important match for our club, our players, and our entire community," He began. "Naturally, we understand that even if we fail to win today, we would still retain chances to claim the title in our remaining fixtures. However, when the ultimate honor of championship appears directly before us—so close we can almost touch it—it becomes impossible for anyone to remain completely calm."
In his private office overlooking the training ground, Châtaigner found himself equally unable to maintain his usual composed demeanor. Standing alone at his window, gazing down at the pitch where Bastia's players had prepared for this moment, he felt his heart pounding with an intensity he hadn't experienced since his own playing days.
Châtaigner had weathered Bastia's darkest periods—the relegations, the financial crises, the administrative chaos that had threatened the club's existence. Now, incredibly, he stood on the threshold of embracing championship glory.
His thoughts churned through the decisions and circumstances that had led to this moment, finally settling on one realization—perhaps signing Julien De Rocca would ultimately be remembered as the single greatest acquisition of his entire professional career.
Not just successful, but legendary. Without exception.
April 22nd arrived with the Mediterranean sun casting golden light across Bastia's ancient harbor, but the weather seemed almost irrelevant compared to the electricity coursing through every street, every building, every conversation.
By mid-afternoon, the entire city had transformed into a pulsing organism of pure excitement. Citizens streamed from their homes like pilgrims answering a sacred call, each person dressed in various shades of blue—from sky blue scarves to navy jerseys, from azure face paint to cobalt flags that fluttered from windows and balconies.
Stade César had become the beating heart of this organism, with countless streams of "blue blood" flowing steadily toward it from every direction. Individual supporters merged into groups, groups became crowds, and crowds became a river of humanity united by decades of shared dreams and disappointments.
When Bastia's team bus finally appeared on the horizon, preceded by police motorcycles with sirens wailing, the emotional intensity reached a crescendo.
"FORZA, Bastia! FORZA, Bastia!" The chant erupted simultaneously from thousands of throats, creating a wall of sound that could be heard for miles across the Mediterranean waters.
Supporters rushed toward the bus with tears already streaming down their faces—they were beyond excited, transcending normal human emotion into something primal. They couldn't wait for the match to conclude before expressing their overwhelming feelings; the anticipation itself had become a form of ecstasy.
Players began opening their windows one by one, extending their arms to wave at the sea of faces surrounding them.
The bus was forced to stop completely in the middle of the road as the human tide pressed closer, desperate for any connection with their heroes.
"Julien! Julien! Julien!" The chant rose above all others, accompanied by "Rothen! Rothen!" and "Choplin! Choplin!"—each player's name becoming a mantra repeated with devotion.
Supporters roared these names as if the very act of speaking them could channel their collective energy into the players themselves, as if vocal passion could somehow guarantee victory through sheer force of will.
Recognizing that the situation was approaching dangerous levels of intensity, police commanders quickly mobilized additional units to disperse the crowd, their amplified voices cutting through the chaos: "Please clear the road! Don't delay the match! If you delay the match, there will be no championship to celebrate!"
These words proved remarkably effective—even in their emotional frenzy, the supporters understood that their passionate display must not interfere with the ultimate goal. The crowd quickly parted, creating a clear passage for the bus to continue its journey.
From his window seat, Julien waved continuously to the supporters, his confident demeanor softened by genuine emotion. Witnessing these extraordinary scenes throughout Bastia, his heart swelled with deep affection for this unique place and its remarkable people. He could feel Bastia's love.
As the bus finally entered the stadium complex, passing through security barriers and approaching the players' entrance, supporters in the crowd continued their passionate discussions:
"When that boy dribbles with the ball, even olive oil stops flowing in amazement."
"We'll win the championship under his leadership—destiny has finally aligned with our dreams."
"The double crown—French Cup and Ligue 2—it'll happen this month, won't it? Please, let it happen this month."
"Julien... our savior, our golden boy..."
ROAR! ROAR-ROAR! ROAR!
As the players emerged from the tunnel and stepped onto the pitch, they were immediately struck by the earth-shaking, thunderous roar that erupted from every corner of Stade César.
For this potentially historic match, the club had worked frantically to install temporary stands around the stadium's perimeter, accommodating an additional three to four thousand supporters beyond the usual capacity.
The result was an atmosphere bigger, more intense, and more emotionally charged than anything Stade César had ever witnessed in its history.
BOOM! BOOM-boom! BOOM!
During the pre-match ceremony, the north stand—traditional home to the most vocal Ultras groups—erupted with wave after wave of dense, rhythmic drumbeats that seemed to synchronize with the collective heartbeat of twenty thousand people united in hope.
Then the UB (Ultras Bastia) members began unveiling their specially prepared TIFO display.
This time's TIFO wasn't designed as a single giant banner, but rather as a series of smaller, sequential reveals.
The first section on the left side of the stand dropped down revealing "1968" in bold numerals alongside artistic silhouettes depicting scenes from their first-ever Ligue 2 championship—players celebrating, supporters embracing, the trophy being lifted toward the Corsican sky.
While many newer supporters were still processing this historical reference, the second section fell with perfect timing.
"1981" appeared in matching style, accompanied by silhouettes from their legendary French Cup triumph—the greatest moment in club history, when Bastia had shocked the football world by defeating mighty Saint-Étienne in the final, with old Bell's pastis flowing through the streets until dawn.
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