Julien's four-goal haul didn't just set the Maracanã roaring.
It set off a firestorm across world football.
On social media, in fan forums, in bars on every street corner—supporters everywhere were talking about nothing but the twenty-year-old's legendary performance.
The comments kept pouring in.
Merging into one massive, worldwide football carnival.
"While everyone's still gushing over James Rodríguez's one moment of magic, take a look at Julien De Rocca. That's what a real prodigy looks like. James had a flash of brilliance—Julien just announced the birth of a legend with a four-goal haul in a World Cup final. They're not even in the same league."
"Julien's only twenty. I can't even imagine what his future looks like. This is what they mean by a chosen one."
"I've followed him since Ligue 1—watched him drag his club to the title, then move to Liverpool and help the Reds win the Premier League. I've watched every step of it. This guy is unreal."
"Klopp's system fits Julien like a glove—speed and technique, a perfect match. Can't wait to see him keep flying next season under Klopp. Go win that damn Champions League already. Complete the club treble. Become the full-set legend of world football."
There was no shortage of mockery, either.
"Honestly, Messi should've just lost to the Dutch in the semis. At least he'd have kept some dignity. Getting steamrolled 5-0 by a kid in the final? That's just humiliating."
"Look how smart Ronaldo was this tournament—packed his bags early and went home, dodged De Rocca. That's how you avoid a disaster like this. Messi's the one who really got nailed to the wall this time."
"It's not that Messi isn't good enough. De Rocca's just a freak. Nobody was stopping him in that kind of form."
Those were mostly comments from fans of other nations.
Among French fans, there was only one topic.
Only one name.
"Julien is God's gift to save French football! Three years—that's all it took him to go from Ligue 1 wonderkid to World Cup legend. Four goals, first man in history to do it. He deserves every honour there is."
"A new king has been crowned! Everyone was still arguing over Messi versus Ronaldo—turns out Julien is the true GOAT of this generation. No contest."
There were even a few comments from Argentine fans.
"We lost, and we have no complaints. It's not that we didn't fight hard enough—French team was just too strong. With a talent like De Rocca, there was no stopping them."
"Messi gave everything he had, but against a Julien that hot, we simply couldn't do anything. All we can do is accept the loss. Hope the Albiceleste comes roaring back next time."
"We thought this was going to be Messi's fairy-tale ending. Turned out to be Julien's coronation instead. I guess that's just how it goes—there's always a new generation rising."
And beyond that, comments poured in from fans of every other nation, all over the map.
"As a Brazilian fan, I hate to admit it, but De Rocca is just too good. Even more dominant than Ronaldo back in the day. France is lucky to have him."
"German fans here—the way De Rocca played, we can lose to that and still respect it."
"Premier League fans are ecstatic. Julien's back at Liverpool next season, which means the title race is only going to get fiercer. Can't wait to see what he does in England."
Outside the stadium, the entire world was talking about this stunning result.
The 5-0 scoreline had already sealed the outcome long before.
But on the pitch, Argentina's players still hadn't given up.
Even with almost no time left. Even with a scoreline that gave them no way back.
They fought with whatever they had left, throwing themselves into one final push.
Messi kept wringing every last drop of energy from his body, still trying to carve out chances by holding the ball himself.
Agüero and the others fought for every second ball, every loose bounce.
Even with the odds hopeless.
But France's defence held firm—Valbuena and Digne, on as substitutes, stood their ground steady on the flanks, with Kanté anchoring the midfield.
Julien and the front line kept pulling defenders out of position up top, occasionally springing a counter, cutting straight through Argentina's back line whenever they wanted.
It completely broke whatever rhythm Argentina had left in their comeback push.
Their attacks kept ending in the same futile struggle—misplaced passes, shots dragged wide.
Every failed attempt chipped away a little more at what was left of their fight.
Finally, time ran out.
Everything was decided.
Beep!
The referee glanced at his watch, slowly raised his right hand, and blew the whistle to end the match.
Three sharp blasts tore across the sky above the Maracanã.
Announcing, officially, the end of this World Cup.
France had crushed Argentina 5-0 and lifted the Jules Rimet Trophy—while Argentina had suffered a humiliating defeat on the final's grandest stage, watching their dream slip away at the very last step.
The instant the whistle blew, everything Argentina's players had been holding back finally broke.
Messi's stifled sobs finally broke free, tears were spilling down his face.
He had given everything he had. But in the end, he hadn't been able to carry the Albiceleste to their dream. A 5-0 defeat—the heaviest regret of his entire career.
Gago sat down on the grass, hands covering his face.
His shoulders shaking. He was crying for tonight's match, and for his own career—the one that had started so bright and faded so fast.
But that, that midfield artist, would never get those years back.
Mascherano, Agüero, and the others collapsed to the ground one after another some silent, some with their heads in their hands, sobbing without end.
It was heartbreaking to watch.
In the stands, the Argentine fans were already in tears.
But on the other side of that grief, was wild joy.
The moment the whistle sounded, France's players erupted, as if they'd all lost their minds at once.
They ran toward each other, crashing into hugs, screaming, roaring.
Julien grabbed Giroud beside him, and the two of them shook each other, shouting.
Tears were streaming down their faces, mixed with laughter. But these were tears of victory.
The substitutes, the coaching staff—everyone poured onto the pitch joining the celebration.
Everyone wrapped in one huge embrace—there was no distinction between players and staff, no distinction between starters and substitutes, every face was lit up with the same joy.
Then, they formed a circle on their own, arms slung over each other's shoulders, singing at the top of their lungs—"France are champions of the world!" bouncing to the rhythm as they sang.
Deschamps stood at the centre of the circle, hoisted up by his players.
He'd dropped every ounce of his usual composure, singing and jumping right along with them.
He'd just become the first Frenchman to win the World Cup both as a player and as the manager who led a team to the title—for him, this was a dream of a day.
He was now the first Frenchman, and only the third man in the entire history of the sport, to achieve this feat.
The two before him: the Brazilian Zagallo, who won as a player in 1958 and 1962, then again as manager in 1970.
And the German Franz Beckenbauer, champion as a player in 1974 and as head coach in 1990.
Now, it was his turn.
Beside Deschamps, Julien was just as overjoyed, laughing and roaring with his teammates.
At the Maracanã, one half of the pitch was Argentina in tears and silent devastation; the other was France in celebration, wild with joy.
Together, they formed the most moving and most brutal image a World Cup final could offer.
The Gallic Rooster stood tall. The Albiceleste had fallen.
Meanwhile, in the broadcast booth, the moment the whistle blew, Alphonse let out a wild roar. "It's over! The match is over!
France have won!
We are world champions! World champions!
Sixteen years later, we lift the Jules Rimet Trophy again! This is France's second World Cup title!
The glory of 1998—we've brought it back today!
Remember 1998, when we won it on home soil and the whole nation erupted? Today, at the Maracanã, we've done it again in a devastating 5-0 victory, we're back on top of the world!
Julien!
This twenty-year-old, with a four-goal performance, carried us to victory. He is a hero of France, the man most responsible for this title!
Every single player was incredible today!
Giroud's goal, Pogba pulling the strings, Kanté's defending, and Digne and Valbuena coming off the bench and giving everything they had!
Deschamps has led this young French team to write history!
France—world champions!
Vive la France!"
His roar carried through the broadcast, layered over the images of France's players celebrating, and it swept through every French fan watching.
The whole nation erupted in celebration of this glory.
Tonight, France would not sleep. But in Argentina, there was only silence.
The commentator Diego spoke; his voice was low. "It's over… we lost. We didn't get our dream. The Albiceleste has fallen once again."
Diego's voice trembled slightly. "I saw Messi's tears. I saw Gago's defiance. I saw every single player give everything they had. They never gave up. They fought until the very last second.
I know,
every Argentine watching right now is in tears, is hurting.
But I want to say this—losing isn't the thing to fear. Giving up is.
We will remember today's humiliation. These tears today will become the strength that carries us forward.
The Albiceleste will not fall forever. Messi's regret will not last forever. Every player's disappointment tonight will become the fire that drives us next time."
Diego's voice steadied, gaining a note of stubborn resolve. "Next time, we will stand back up. We will keep following the Albiceleste. We will carry this regret with us, give everything we have, and chase the next mountain, the next sea. One day, we will stand on the World Cup final stage again, and we will lift that trophy.
Argentina—until next time. We will make it."
After the celebrations on the pitch died down, the atmosphere at the Maracanã was still electric.
France's players ran toward the sidelines, where their families had come down to join the celebration.
Once the family reunions wound down, the lights at the Maracanã turned toward the podium at the centre of the pitch, and the World Cup trophy ceremony officially began.
Staff carefully guided both teams into position.
Argentina's players walked to their spots with their heads down, faces still etched with disappointment.
France's players walked tall, chests out.
The first award of the ceremony was the Golden Glove, and it belonged, without question, to France's goalkeeper, Lloris.
Lloris stepped up to the podium, and FIFA president Blatter presented him with the trophy.
Lloris took it with both hands, a smile breaking across his face.
Next, came the Adidas Golden Ball, and every eye in the stadium turned instantly to the podium.
Everyone already knew who it belonged to. There was no suspense left.
When Blatter announced the name—"Julien De Rocca" —the Maracanã erupted in a deafening roar.
"Julien!"
"Julien!!"
French fans screamed his name over and over bursting with pride.
Julien walked up to the podium with his head held high, and took the Golden Ball.
It was only the World Cup Golden Ball.
But the real one—the Ballon d'Or surely wasn't far off now.
With the individual awards handed out, the ceremony moved to its most anticipated moment: the runner-up and champions' presentation.
First came the silver medals. Argentina's players walked slowly up to the podium, heads down, faces heavy, as FIFA officials placed the medals around their necks one by one. No cheers. No smiles. Only a weight of disappointment that wouldn't lift.
Messi walked up, step by step, to collect his medal, and as he passed the table where the World Cup trophy sat on display, he stopped.
He stood there and looked at it—the trophy that had haunted his dreams for so long.
In that moment, Messi was so close to the World Cup.
And yet so far from it.
Then, Messi quietly walked on, took his medal, and hung it around his neck without a word.
He looked back at the trophy in the distance, filled with regret—a regret that might end up being the heaviest mark on his entire career.
Then, it was time for the champions' ceremony.
By now, the roar of the crowd had reached its absolute peak.
"France are champions!"
"We are world champions!!"
The shouts kept rolling across the stadium, wave after wave.
On the podium, France's head of state, present as an honoured guest, watched it all unfold, thrilled beyond words.
France's players stepped up one by one, and FIFA officials draped the gleaming gold champions' medals around their necks. Every medal drew another wave of cheering from the crowd.
France's head of state moved down the line, warmly shaking hands and embracing each player.
He was proud, too.
Julien went up last.
When he stepped forward to receive his medal, the whole stadium erupted louder than at any point all night. The fans kept chanting his name.
Louder with every shout.
"Julien!!!"
Amid the roaring crowd, Julien took his gold medal.
Then, he walked toward the trophy he'd dreamed of for so long.
Without a moment's hesitation, he wrapped both arms around it, as if holding all the glory of France in his embrace.
Every man on the French team was grinning.
They had done it. Their dream, realized.
Julien carried the trophy over to his teammates, standing at the centre of the group photo.
"One, two, three!"
In that moment, Julien lifted the World Cup high above his head, every French player gathered around, hands raised together to hold the trophy aloft, roaring as one: "France are champions! France are champions!"
The sound was deafening, echoing across the entire Maracanã.
Click, click, click!
Cameras flashed below without pause, capturing this moment preserving it forever.
France. World champions.
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