On the pitch, the tempo had downshifted intensely. Neither side created clear chances. Bastia recycled possession through the thirds, patiently killing time with the same ruthlessness they'd killed Montpellier's hopes in the first half. The ball moved in neat triangles—pass, move, pass again, it was hypnotic monotony.
But at this point, few spectators cared about match quality. Everyone was simply waiting for that final whistle, for permission to explode.
The 78th minute arrived.
Bastia worked the ball patiently through Montpellier's defensive third, probing for gaps that no longer existed. After several routine passes of sideways, backwards, sideways again—the ball jetted loose into a pocket of space just left of the D.
A Montpellier midfielder had lunged for an interception, miscalculated, and left the ball spinning invitingly in no-man's-land.
Vincent, the substitute midfielder making a diagonal run from deep, suddenly found the ball rolling toward him on a silver platter. No time to think—thinking was death in these moments.
The Corsican-born youth product—Bastia through and through, born three kilometers from this stadium adjusted his pace with two quick stutter-steps and, without hesitation, unleashed a thunderous left-footed strike.
The crack of boot on ball echoed even over the crowd noise. The ball exploded off his foot like a cannonball, ripping a low, vicious arc toward goal. It barely rose six inches off the turf, diverging slightly from the spin, gathering speed rather than losing it.
Goalkeeper Pionnier flung himself desperately, but had no chance. The ball buried itself in the bottom-right corner with precision, hitting the side netting with enough force to make it bulge.
4-0!
Vincent froze. Completely motionless. His arms rose slightly, hands open as if trying to catch something falling from the sky, eyes wide with disbelief, as though his brain couldn't process what his body had just accomplished. His mouth formed a perfect O.
Then—reality detonated through him like lightning.
He spun and sprinted toward the hardcore section, tearing across the turf with a roar building in his throat that sounded barely human. As he ran, he clawed frantically at the Bastia crest on his chest, kissing it again and again and again. Tears streamed down his face before he'd even reached the advertising boards.
At the barrier, he gripped the badge with both hands and screamed at the top of his lungs—a declaration to the world, to the island: I am from here! I belong to this place!
His teammates joined from all directions, but instead of the usual playful mobbing, they surrounded him with tender roughness. Hands on his shoulders, his back, his head. Ruffling his hair gently, pounding his back in rhythm. Faces glowing with pride and understanding.
They all knew. After De Bruyne's arrival, Vincent had been reduced to scraps of playing time, mostly late substitutions when matches were already decided. For a player who'd been a regular starter the previous season, that hurt.
His teammates pulled him up, embracing him tightly, but Vincent couldn't stop crying. He wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand—futile against the flood, like trying to dam a river with pebbles.
These weren't tears of sorrow. They were the tears of a dream fulfilled in the most perfect way imaginable. The local boy, given minutes in a title-clinching match, scoring a goal his grandchildren would hear about.
He looked up toward the stands where supporters who'd watched him grow up—who'd seen him in the youth academy, who'd cheered his debut stood beside his parents, then toward the technical area where Hadzibegic was applauding. His eyes brimmed with gratitude.
Up in the stands, Vincent's father and mother were engulfed by applauding fans, tears were pouring down their faces. Someone draped a massive Bastia flag across their shoulders as the surrounding section showered them with affection and shared joy.
On the bench, Julien and the other substitutes had moved to the touchline, applauding and cheering for their teammate.
Every player's effort deserves to be witnessed. Every goal deserves to be celebrated. Especially this one.
Time crept toward the 90th minute. The referee glanced at his watch, then signaled to the fourth official: no added time.
Everyone waited.
An unprecedented, almost suffocating tension fell over Stade Armand Cesari. Tens of thousands held their breath. Hearts pounded with audible force—you could see it in the stands, chests rising and falling in unison. Every inhalation became careful, restrained, as if breathing too loudly might jinx the moment.
The closer they came to the finish line, the more that desperate longing transformed into delicious, sweet agony—hope and fear amplified to unbearable extremes.
What if the referee found a reason to blow the whistle early? What if he added time that wasn't there? What if it all crashed and they woke up to find this was all a dream?
PHREEEEEEEEET!
The final whistle tore through the air.
For one millionth of a second, the stadium froze—a deathly silence like the ocean retreating before a tsunami. Every face turned toward the referee, ensuring this was real, that the whistle wasn't a mistake or a foul.
Then—
108 years of suppressed emotion erupted like a volcanic cataclysm.
Sound became a physical force, a tidal wave of noise that obliterated the Corsican night sky. The stands transformed into a churning blue ocean, every fan jumping, falling, embracing, collapsing. Countless scarves and flags thrashed wildly, creating a vision-obscuring storm of fabric and fervor that made it impossible to see specific faces.
"BASTIA!"
"BASTIA ARE CHAMPIONS!"
White-haired elders buried their faces in trembling hands, tears flooding through their fingers. Young fathers hoisted children toward the sky, pointing at the pitch while screaming hoarse and desperate: "REMEMBER THIS DAY! REMEMBER WHAT YOU SAW!"
Strangers grabbed each other in fierce embraces, pounding backs, weeping openly without shame or restraint as the chant of "BASTIA ARE CHAMPIONS" became a physical presence in the air, vibrating in bones and teeth.
The ultras behind the goal ignited their final weapon—dozens of blue smoke bombs were simultaneously erupting with sharp cracks and hisses. Dense colored smoke poured down like stage curtains, shrouding the entire stadium in dreamlike, fierce color. The smoke caught the floodlights, creating an ethereal glow, turning the stadium into something between a football ground and a cathedral during mass.
Then came the tifo.
Massive. Unprecedented. Monumental.
It engulfed the entire ultra-section, spilling into the corner stands and creeping along both long sides of the stadium. They must have worked on it for weeks.
The central image: Julien with arms spread wide in celebration. Surrounding him, Bastia legends—Papi, Porte, former captains from different eras placing a crown on his head. Trophies gleamed around them.
Julien's silhouette was center stage. Adjoining him were current teammates—Kanté, De Bruyne, Lukaku, and the others. Further out, former Bastia players from different eras, all gazing toward Julien and those championship trophies. Each group had their era labeled above them in bold letters.
Out on the far edges of the long stands, the images grew faint, barely distinguishable, figures in washed-out colors, accompanied by a single date in old font:
1905
The year Bastia SC was founded. Those players were long gone, became dust and memory, names recorded in ledgers that no one read anymore. But the club they birthed had survived the long river of time—through world wars, through financial collapse, through relegations and near-liquidations.
And tonight—tonight it ascended to the summit of France.
The enormous tifo rippled in the smoke and wind, making the crowned king appear to accept his coronation alongside the entire stadium, past and present unified in this single moment of conquest.
On the pitch, players scattered like blue meteors. Some slid to their knees, carving long trenches into the turf. Others collapsed onto their backs, arms spread like snow angels, tears and sweat mingling freely until they couldn't tell which was which. Mostly, there were embraces—desperate, joyful, sobbing.
Along the touchline, Hadzibegic disappeared beneath a pile of assistants and players and staff members who'd rushed from the bench. His clenched fists trembled slightly as his gaze pierced through the smoke enveloping the stadium, as though watching a century of longing finally reach completion in this moment.
His lips moved, but no sound came out. Perhaps he was praying. Perhaps he was swearing. Perhaps he simply had no words left.
Montpellier's players slipped away quietly through the chaos, like rocks left exposed by a receding tide before being swallowed by the surging blue ocean.
A few of them clapped politely but their faces showed only exhaustion and the desire to disappear.
This wasn't merely the end of a match. It was a century-long voyage finally reaching port.
The trophy hadn't been lifted yet. But the coronation was complete—
In every tear shed, every voice raised, every inch of night sky scorched by blue fire.
Corsica's heart beat wildly for football.
"BASTIA ARE CHAMPIONS!"
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