The lingering shock of Messi's free kick off the crossbar still hadn't faded.
The atmosphere inside the Maracanã remained stretched.
Both sides quickly reset, the tempo of attack and defence picking up further, no longer content with cautious probing, both teams were now more willing to commit men forward.
The match reached the 15th minute.
Pogba slid a short pass out to Julien on the left.
The instant the ball reached him, Julien dropped his body low, and as Zabaleta closed in to intercept, he pulled off the same dip-of-the-shoulder feint Messi loved then a clean cut inside that left Zabaleta grasping at nothing.
Before Biglia could scramble across to cover.
Julien accelerated again in two rapid changes of direction tearing a gap wide open in Argentina's defensive shape.
The French fans in the stands erupted with eyes locked on him.
Seeing Mascherano had also recovered to cover, Julien didn't try to carry it further himself—he spotted Griezmann arriving through the middle and slid a pass to his feet.
Griezmann took it while in run, spinning away from the tangle of Argentina's Garay to shake him off.
From the edge of the box, he curled a left-footed shot, the ball began tracing an arc toward goal.
But the angle was just off—it sailed wide of the far post, missing the target.
Griezmann shook his head, frustrated, and waved an apology toward Julien.
"What a run from Julien—that explosiveness, that footwork, all on full display! Such a shame Griezmann's effort just missed—France came within inches of a goal!" French commentator Alphonse's voice showed regret.
That chance really had been one of the few good ones France had managed.
Argentina surged forward on the counter.
In the 18th minute, Messi picked up the ball in the middle of the park and swept his eyes across France's back line.
Then he suddenly burst into motion.
His feet quickened, stringing together a series of dribbles as he tried to slice through the heart of France's midfield.
Kanté saw it coming and closed in tight immediately, not diving in rashly, just holding his ground on Messi's line, squeezing the space with every step.
Messi tried a change of pace to shake him loose, but Kanté stuck to him like glue, never more than a step away.
No matter how Messi varied his rhythm, he couldn't shake the man off.
In the end, just as Messi adjusted his touch, Kanté struck a clean, decisive tackle that stripped the ball clean.
He immediately laid it off to a teammate, snuffing out Argentina's counter before it could go anywhere.
A roar of astonishment swept through the stadium.
Even Alphonse sounded a little disbelieving. "What a piece of defending from Kanté! He just went one-on-one with Messi and won!
Who would have believed it—two seasons ago this Frenchman was still playing in Ligue 2, not even as a guaranteed starter for his club, and now he's standing on the pitch of a World Cup final shutting down the best player on the planet.
His growth has been staggering. He just keeps getting better and better!"
After winning the ball, Kanté barely changed expression.
He simply carried on defending.
Today he had one job, and one job only: lock Messi down.
Messi stood there for a moment, watching the play unfold, and he realized—France's midfield defence was far sturdier than expected.
Over the next few minutes, the two sides settled back into a stalemate.
Attack and defence traded back and forth, but neither could carve out a clear-cut chance.
Just as everyone assumed the final would grind into a long deadlock, one that would likely only break open in the second half—in the 21st minute, Julien stepped up!
Cabaye found Julien with a pass, and once he had the ball on the left, he didn't look to release it—he switched straight back into attack mode.
First a drag-and-push that left the recovering Enzo Pérez grasping at air, then, facing Mascherano's challenge, a slick Marseille turn spun him clear of that too.
Then he accelerated again, past Biglia's covering run.
One breath, and he'd beaten three Argentine midfielders in a row, driving straight for the box!
The stadium gasped again!
That run from Julien was simply magnificent.
Argentina's back line snapped shut in response—Garay rushed up to meet him, Rojo tucked inside too, both trying to keep Julien out of the area.
And yet—just when everyone expected him to keep driving forward, looking for a teammate, he let fly, out of nowhere, mid-run, with a thunderous shot from distance!
Boom!
The ball shot forward like a cannon fired from the barrel, hurtling straight for goal!
Romero reacted in an instant, throwing himself full-length in a desperate dive.
But the strike had come so suddenly, he never got a hand to it.
Whoosh—the net rippled!
A screamer—the ball was in!
1–0!
France was in front!!
The moment the ball crossed the line into Argentina's net, the air inside the Maracanã caught fire.
Alphonse's voice detonated right along with it, pure elation, nearly a scream tearing through every broadcast feed: "GOAL! IT'S IN!
My God!
Julien! It's Julien DE ROCCCAAAA!
What a world-class strike—PERFECT! Absolutely flawless!
The 21st minute! Julien has broken the deadlock with a stunning strike from range—France leads, 1–0!
That is his 17th goal of this World Cup!
He is still rewriting the record books, still writing his own legend!
A twenty-year-old boy, on the biggest stage in football, has just carried the hopes of an entire nation on a shot like that—he is the pride of French football!"
Alphonse caught his breath for a moment, but his voice stayed just as charged. "My friends, we are ahead!
This is a monumental goal—one that could well decide the shape of this entire match!
All the pressure now shifts onto Argentina. They will have to abandon caution and commit men forward if they want any chance of levelling the score.
And we all know exactly what France does best in that kind of situation—sit deep, and strike on the break!
If we hold our defensive shape, with Julien and Griezmann's speed and threat in behind, the moment Argentina commits numbers forward, our counters will become their worst nightmare!
We are one step closer to the World Cup trophy!
This goal is not just Julien's shining moment—it is a crucial step for France on the road to glory!
Think of the heartbreak of 2006. Think of how long we have waited for this trophy. Today, Julien is using everything he has to help us make up for that, to help us realize the dream of a World Cup title!"
At the very same moment, Julien's goal tore through France like a hurricane!
From the French section of the stands at the Maracanã, all the way to the streets and alleys back home, every corner of the country was drowned in cheering.
Inside the stadium, the section packed with French supporters had already turned into a sea of blue.
Fans waved their tricolour flags in a frenzy.
Chanting Julien's name in unison, the roar was thunderous.
In the squares of Paris, crowds had already gathered before the big screens, and the instant they saw the ball hit the net, the whole crowd erupted.
Fans cheered and leapt into the air, slapping palms, throwing their arms around each other—some had even climbed up onto streetlights, waving flags and shouting at the top of their lungs: "Julien! Our hero! Vive la France!"
Car horns blared up and down the streets, one after another.
In bars across every corner of France, it was all celebration.
In front of TV screens, fans slammed their beer glasses together, spraying foams everywhere, roaring and cheering, Julien's name on was every lip.
Someone pounded the table and leapt to their feet, fist raised in the air; someone else pulled a friend into a crushing hug, eyes brimming with tears.
This was the goal they had been waiting for. This was the closest they had ever been to the trophy.
Julien, with a single goal, had lit a fire under an entire nation.
And in that moment, after scoring, Julien turned and sprinted straight for the stand packed with French fans.
Arms flung wide, like an eagle spreading its wings in flight!
His posture radiating pure, electric confidence!
The afternoon sun caught his jersey, the blue was blazing bright!
He stopped there, facing the stand, holding that pose—arms wide open. It was his signature celebration, his roar of victory, and above all, his answer to every French fan watching.
He'd scored!
Scored in a World Cup final!
Behind him, his teammates could no longer hold themselves back, and were sprinting after him.
Griezmann was the first to reach him, throwing his arms around his shoulders from behind, shaking him hard, shouting hoarsely.
Pogba arrived a sec later, hauling Julien's arm over his own shoulder, his other fist raised high toward the stands.
In seconds, every French player had gathered around him, swallowing him up in the celebration.
On the touchline, Deschamps could no longer hold on to his usual composure.
The moment the ball hit the net, his arms shot up, and he actually jumped, roaring at the top of his voice.
He turned to his coaching staff, and without a word, threw his arms around them one after another, clapping their backs, repeating over and over: "Well done! Well done, Julien! We're ahead!"
One step closer to making up for 2006. One step closer to lifting that trophy.
On the other side of the pitch.
Argentina had fallen into gloom.
They were behind. And falling behind at a moment like this in a final was clearly not good news for them.
Messi stood in the middle of the pitch, fixed to the spot.
His gaze drifted past the celebrating Frenchmen and settled on Julien, swallowed up by his teammates, his expression showed conflicting feelings.
He watched him standing there, arms spread wide in celebration—a boy several years younger than himself, radiant with confidence on the biggest stage football had to offer and some complicated things stirred in his chest.
This goal had not only put Argentina on the back foot but also loaded a weight onto his shoulders unlike anything he'd felt before.
The World Cup he'd craved his entire life felt, once again was a step further out of reach.
The truth was, this tournament had turned out to be something of a watershed. Before this World Cup, Messi had never quite been treated as the undisputed core of the Argentina side the way he was at Barcelona.
But this time, he was.
The team had been built around him. And Argentina's results had shot up as a consequence.
He did not want to lose.
He wanted to prove himself—that he, too, could be the man who carried Argentina to a title, just as Maradona once had.
Soon, play resumed.
Under Sabella's direction, Argentina shifted their approach entirely, pushing men forward in numbers.
Attack, and keep attacking!
Messi's position pushed noticeably higher, no longer content to link play through midfield—he began drifting between France's midfield and back line, becoming the undisputed focal point of every Argentine attack.
Mascherano and Biglia, too, pulled back from their defensive duties, pushing forward more frequently.
Lavezzi and Enzo Pérez wove back and forth along the flanks, hunting for a crack in France's defence, while Higuaín held the highest line.
He stayed ready at all times to receive the ball and get a shot away.
Once ahead, Deschamps made an immediate tactical adjustment—France's shape dropped back noticeably.
The 4-3-3 quietly folded into a 4-5-1, France abandoning any sign of pushing forward, committed instead to sitting deep and hitting on the break.
Only Giroud remained up top, alone, using his size to occupy Argentina's back line, contest the aerial balls, and lay the groundwork for the counter to come.
Following Deschamps' tactical instructions, Julien dropped in just behind Giroud, forming a bridge between the front line and midfield—never rushing forward carelessly, never dropping too deep into defence either.
He held his position just ahead of the midfield line, eyes constantly sweeping the pitch—watching Argentina's rhythm on one hand, tracking his own teammates' passing lanes on the other, ready to receive the ball the instant France won it back and launch the counter without delay.
His positioning stayed fluid, always adjusting and dropping back a touch here to link with Kanté or Pogba, drifting forward there to combine with Giroud, keeping Argentina's back line guessing.
In the 25th minute, Messi picked up the ball in midfield, strung together a run past Pogba's challenge, then slipped a through ball out to Lavezzi, breaking forward on the right.
Lavezzi took it and burst past Evra, France's left back. He whipped a cross into the box.
Higuaín rose above everyone, meeting it with a header. But Lloris was equal to it, gathering the ball securely—Argentina's attack came to nothing once again.
Higuaín, on the biggest stages, always seems to fall just a little short of his best.
This match was proving to be another example of it.
"Argentina have thrown caution completely to the wind now, all men are forward. Messi's still weaving his magic in the middle, but France's defence has pulled in tight—Kanté's interceptions have been the difference-maker," Alphonse continued. "France's game plan right now couldn't be clearer: sit back, absorb the pressure.
Lean on Giroud to hold the ball up, and on Julien's ability to break at pace—wait for the moment to strike.
Julien's role here is everything.
He is the hear of every French counterattack. The instant they win the ball back; he can drive forward with it immediately and deliver the killing blow to Argentina."
In the 28th minute, Argentina came forward again in series. Messi picked up the ball at the edge of the box, and facing a double team from France, tried a quick change of direction, looking to shoot.
But the ball cannoned off a defender.
The attack broke down once more.
At that moment, the broadcast cut to a close-up of Di María, sitting on the bench.
The camera said everything without a word.
Alphonse spoke up as well.
"Di María did make the squad for this match, though whether or when he'll get on the pitch is still very much a question mark. According to earlier media reports, he wasn't in a condition to play at all…"
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