He wanted to give Julien enough time. He wasn't going to let him come off.
Let the French captain stay on the pitch—let him chase the record for most goals scored by a single player in a single World Cup match.
Once Deschamps decided not to substitute Julien, the players out on the field understood simultaneously what their manager meant. They traded glances with each other, and no more words were needed. The understanding was already there.
For the rest of the match: feed Julien the ball. Do everything possible to create chances for him. Help him equal or even break—the World Cup record for most goals in a single game.
Seeing all this, Julien had no choice but to chase the record now, even if he hadn't wanted to before.
The mood and setting had been built up to this point. How could he possibly hold back?
Soon, the match restarted.
Switzerland knew there was almost no chance of a comeback now. But they still had their pride.
Plenty of them had heard about the five-goal record too.
So, they didn't give up on defending. The entire team pulled back into their own half, packed into a dense defensive shape that never loosened, not even slightly.
They'd lost all confidence of fighting back but the defending now was something else. It was a kind of stubbornness.
Stop the opponent from breaking the record.
France's attack tilted totally toward Julien.
Whenever Pogba had the ball in midfield, he kept sending it to Julien's feet, doing everything he could to open up space for him to receive it.
Griezmann gave up his own chances to score, running the left flank instead, dragging Switzerland's defenders out of position to pull open gaps for Julien and the moment he got the ball himself, he'd turn and pass it straight to him.
Giroud held the front line, using his body to hold off the Swiss defenders, shielding Julien, opening up shooting lanes for him. Even when he had a shot of his own, he'd deliberately lay it off to Julien instead, if Julien was better placed.
Up in the stands, the French fans could barely contain themselves, chanting over and over: "Julien, one more!"
"One more!!"
Their eyes locked onto Julien's every touch of the ball. Some of them muttered under their breath, again and again: goal, goal.
Even when Julien made a small mistake, they broke into applause anyway, waiting for the next attack.
A large number of fans had their phones out, and cameras on Julien the whole time, terrified of missing the moment he tied the record.
Meanwhile, Alphonse was saying: "The entire stadium is waiting! Waiting for Julien to score one more, to equal the World Cup record of five goals in a single match! A four-goal haul is already legendary—but we all know Julien isn't aiming for that. He has the ability, he has the form, to achieve something even greater..."
Julien, of course, understood what his teammates were doing for him.
Every time he received a pass from one of them, he treasured it but that only made him more anxious to score.
He knew his teammates were giving everything to help him, that Deschamps had given him all the time he needed. He didn't want to let any of them down.
But the more desperate he grew to score, the more chances slipped through his fingers.
Julien's goal simply would not come.
In the 62nd minute, Pogba sent a ball straight through the defence. Julien met it in the air with a volley but he rushed it, and the ball drifted just wide of the right post.
Crack!
A groan of disappointment rippled through the stands.
Alphonse's voice carried the same regret: "So close! So close! Julien was too eager there—a little steadier, and that's the fifth goal!"
The fans didn't lose heart. If anything, they shouted louder, cheering him on.
Three minutes later, Griezmann broke down the left and sent in a cross.
Giroud flicked it on with his head.
Julien, holding off a defender inside the box, twisted and forced a shot but he didn't strike it cleanly.
The goalkeeper gathered it.
Time slipped by, minute after minute. France kept building their attacks around Julien, and his teammates kept patiently feeding him the ball.
But by now, it seemed, everyone understood the ball would always end up with Julien to finish which, if anything, made Switzerland's defending simpler.
All they had to do was mark Julien, and mark him tight.
No matter where he moved, two defenders were always on him.
Before anyone knew it, the match had reached the 70th minute. The score still stood frozen at 4–0.
Julien stood on the pitch with sweat running all across his forehead, watching the situation unfold in front of him and furrowed his eyebros slightly.
He was starting to wonder if he should just let it go.
He couldn't let his own personal record drag the team down.
But his teammates were still giving everything to help him.
Julien breathed in deep, again and again. He knew he needed to settle his mind, set down the weight of his own impatience, before he could seize the next chance that came.
France's attack kept circling around him.
On the sideline, Deschamps stood with his arms crossed over his chest, forehead faintly creased, caught in the same conflict as Julien himself.
After all, the 4–0 lead was already secure. The team had almost locked up first place in the group. There was no real need to keep Julien out there burning through his legs.
And there was even less need to risk an injury to his key player, just to chase a single-match scoring record.
The World Cup campaign was still long.
Julien's health mattered more than the record from one match.
He knew this was the safest choice—the most responsible choice, for Julien and for the team both.
But...
Some small part of Deschamps still held onto hope. Maybe, though? Five minutes... just the last five minutes...
On the pitch, Julien signalled to his teammates: settle down, play it normal.
He could feel that his own head had gotten away from him a little.
He needed to slow down and let the chances come to him.
And the moment he truly slowed down—that was exactly when he found the opening.
In the 73rd minute, Julien drifted out toward the touchline and simply stood there, almost as if he were out for a stroll.
Switzerland hadn't dropped their guard but even so, their defending eased slightly, without them quite meaning it to.
And in that very instant, Julien saw his chance.
He caught Pogba's eye across the midfield and gave the faintest flick of a finger, pointing forward.
Thump!
Pogba didn't hesitate for a second—the next moment, he sent a long ball arcing out to the left flank.
At that moment, Julien was sandwiched between two Swiss defenders, with what looked like no room to break through at all.
But Pogba's pass, guided by Julien's signal, had been placed with just the right amount of lead on it.
Julien relied on speed and the momentum, he burst past both defenders and sprinted toward where the ball would land!
In an instant, the nearest Swiss player scrambled to cover, but Julien flicked the ball with his left foot, slipping past the challenge in a sec. He shifted his weight low to the right, and with startling explosiveness and footwork, carved out just enough space to attack.
He accelerated on the spot and cut inside immediately!
He surged forward along the edge of the box on the left, and though the Swiss defence chased with everything they had, they couldn't match his pace—they could only watch, helpless, as he closed in on goal, step by step.
Right in front of him, another defender rushed over to cover, and Julien shaped as if to shoot!
The defender moved to block.
At the same time, the goalkeeper, Bénalio, was drawn in too, shifting his weight.
And in the very next second—Julien snapped the ball across to his left foot, swung his leg, and fired!
Thump!
The ball rose off the ground, curling on a line straight toward the goal!
Bénalio's weight had already shifted to his right—seeing Julien's shot, he planted hard and wrenched his body around, diving desperately to the left.
But that single motion had already come too late.
Whoosh!
The ball carved a wicked arc through the air, curling past Bénalio's outstretched dive and slamming into the goal—the net rippled violently as the ball crashed home!
It was in!
5–0!
"Julien! Julien!"
The instant the ball hit the net, the French section of the Xinshuiyuan Stadium erupted completely.
The roar broke like thunder, sudden and deafening!
Wilder than any celebration before it—hotter, more feverish than anything that had come before!
Julien, after scoring, could no longer hold anything back. Every ounce of frustration from moments ago vanished in an instant.
He spun around sharply, dropped into a knee slide, and tore off across the pitch.
He left three long grass marks behind him.
Then he rose to his feet in one motion, threw his arms wide, and faced the roaring crowd head-on!
His teammates, already sprinting after him like they'd lost their minds, caught up fast. Pogba got there first, wrapping him up from behind. "Julien! Five goals! You actually scored five goals! I knew it—I knew you could do it!"
Griezmann was right behind him. "Man, you're absolutely ridiculous!"
Giroud closed in too, reaching over to ruffle Julien's hair. "You've never once let us down. That was unbelievable!"
His teammates crowded in around him, one after another, until he was completely surrounded.
Praise kept spilling out of their mouths, over and over.
"That was so good! Unstoppable, that finish!"
"No keeper on earth was saving that one!"
"Five goals in one match—it's hard to even wrap your head around it. This is insane!"
Julien, swallowed up in the middle of his teammates, broke into a dazzling smile.
Every bit of pressure, every bit of frustration from before—all of it had melted away by now.
He tipped his head back, and let the roar of the entire stadium wash over him without holding anything back.
On the sideline, Deschamps was smiling too, celebrating like a man possessed. Whatever conflict he'd carried before had been swept away entirely by pride.
His eyes stayed fixed on Julien, still swarmed by teammates out on the pitch.
He was in an excellent mood.
Julien was France's ceiling.
And from where things stood now, that ceiling looked impossibly, endlessly high.
The whole bench had caught the joy too—the assistant coaches' faces were flushed red with excitement.
Once the celebrating had run its course, Deschamps slowly turned his head and signalled for the coaching staff to send on a substitute. Time to bring Julien off.
At that moment, the entire stadium was still lost in the frenzy.
Countless French fans shot to their feet, waving anything they had in their hands.
Their throats kept tearing out Julien's name, over and over, until they couldn't find any grander words for it anymore—all that was left was the plainest, wildest phrase they could manage, repeated again and again: "Julien is just too much! Too much!"
"I genuinely don't know how else to praise him!" one French fan shouted, face flushed red all over, his voice cracking with excitement, the flag in his hands was crumpled from how tightly he'd been gripping it. "From that lightning-fast opener to five goals and total shambles right now—what kind of player even is he? Too much. Genuinely too much. I can't come up with any other word besides too much!"
"Right? Words just aren't enough anymore. Julien's a legend—he's the pride of France. There's no way to overpraise him now!"
Up in the stands, the French fans all seemed to have collectively run out of ways to praise Julien.
Some shouted "Julien is unstoppable," others shouted "Julien is chosen by heaven" —but again and again, they'd circle back to the plainest words of all: "too much," "too incredible."
Everyone wanted to give Julien the finest praise they had, only to find that every word felt inadequate next to what he'd just done.
All that was left was to pour out that burning, blazing feeling through repeated, wild shouting.
Amid the French fans' celebration, there were also some of his fans from other countries who'd travelled a long way to be here.
Back at their respective home countries, before this, all they'd been able to do was watch Julien on a screen, screaming themselves for every goal he scored.
Now, finally standing here in person, watching him perform like a god come down to earth, they were completely floored.
"Julien is unreal! Actually unreal! Finally seeing it live—it's even crazier than on the TV!"
"God, this was worth every penny! I used to stay back home watching the Tv, thinking Julien was just insane. But seeing it live today—now I get what a real top-tier finisher actually looks like. Five goals. Five goals in one match, and half of them off pure individual skill, cutting inside to score. This form he's in right now—it really is like a god came down to earth. Genuinely unreal. A hundred times more overwhelming than watching it on a screen."
"I used to just listen to commentators hype him up on the broadcast. Today, seeing it in person, I finally understand how terrifying he really is. That footwork, that explosiveness—it's genuinely incredible. I don't even know what else to say besides incredible. This trip was worth it."
Meanwhile, the French commentator had also run out of words to describe what he was seeing.
He just kept shouting, wild with excitement: "It's in! It's in! Julien! My God! Julien!
He's scored his fifth goal!
Five goals in a single match!
He's equalled the World Cup record for most goals scored in one game!
We are witnessing history!
We are truly witnessing history, right now!
Five goals in a match—this isn't a dream! Julien actually did it!
I can't find the words to describe him!
I truly cannot!
Five in one match, eight across two matches! What kind of monster is this man? Is he some kind of football god?
Julien!
Julien is the god of football!"
Out on the pitch.
Julien tipped his head back, arms thrown wide, teammates crowded around him, cameras in front of him, and beyond that, the stands roaring with fans out of their minds.
In this moment, he truly did look like a god of football come to earth, driving countless fans into a frenzy.
Alphonse hadn't stopped for breath, still pouring out words in a feverish, half-coherent rush: "Look at him! Look at this young man! Breaking through entirely on his own individual ability! This match—this was his show, his alone, from start to finish!
This is what a top-tier finisher looks like!
This is what Julien is capable of!
I'm losing my mind!
I am genuinely losing my mind!
In all my years calling matches, I've seen countless legendary strikers. I've seen a single-match four-goal haul. I've seen back-to-back hat-tricks. But I have never—never—seen a player like this!
Five goals in one World Cup match. Eight across two matches. Unprecedented! No one has ever done this—no one may ever do it again!
He is the absolute leading man of this entire World Cup!
He is the superstar of French football!
Today, every single fan here is witnessing a legend being born. Every single fan here is going wild for Julien.
I'll say it outright—this moment will be written into the history books of the World Cup, and it will be remembered forever!"
Alphonse's voice had gone completely feverish by the end, his throat was starting to give out, and turned hoarse but nobody minded in the slightest.
Every French fan in the stadium was cheering for Julien.
Even as he made his way back to the centre circle after the celebration, Julien kept waving to the crowd, again and again.
Meanwhile, the Swiss players stood there grim-faced, watching France's celebration unfold, feelings were tangled and heavy inside them.
They had just watched history being made.
But the bitter truth of it was—they'd become nothing more than the backdrop to it.
Even their manager, Hitzfeld, could only shake his head looking helpless.
Faced with a player like Julien, Switzerland had done everything they possibly could and it hadn't mattered at all.
They simply couldn't stop him. There was no stopping him.
'If this really is how I end up as part of World Cup history—as the backdrop to someone else's legend—I suppose I could live with that,' He thought. 'At least I'll be remembered too, won't I?'
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