When playing football, you should call it GOAT.

Chapter 158 Let's go take that damn championship!!!
During halftime at Highbury, Terry and Lampard sat in the away fans' section, surrounded by whispering Arsenal fans.

"That French kid is really something."

Terry stared at the replay of Roy's breakthrough on the big screen and said in a low voice, "Much better than the Argentinians."

Lampard nodded, his eyes still on the screen: "How many goals has Crespo scored this season? Roy turned Arsenal's defense upside down in the first half alone."

"The Romanian (Mutu) is no match for him."

"What size do you think he'll wear if he comes?" Terry suddenly asked.

Lampard frowned and thought for a moment: "Number 10 already belongs to Joe Cole, it's impossible to give it up."

"They'll probably sell Mutu, right?"

Terry's tone held a hint of anticipation, "That piece of trash is useless to keep around."

"Wearing number 7? Then why doesn't he go to Manchester United and wear number 7?"

"Even if the owner is willing to give a higher percentage of image rights, it's impossible to earn more than Manchester United."

"Even getting 60% from Manchester United is better than getting 80% or 90% here."

Arsenal dressing room.

The locker room was deathly silent, save for the players' heavy breathing.

So... we're just leaving like this for the year?

Henry suddenly whispered, the words almost squeezed out between his teeth.

Bergkamp looked up abruptly: "Thirry!"

“I’m serious,” Henry said, looking around the locker room. “We haven’t lost a single league game all season, and now we’re going to be eliminated on our own turf by a 19-year-old?”

Vieira slammed his fist on the wardrobe: "Damn it, we're an invincible army!"

The locker room fell silent once again.

Pires stared at the floor, while Campbell covered his head with a towel.

This is the scene that Wenger saw when he pushed open the door.

He gently closed the door: "Gentlemen, I heard people discussing 'just leaving like that'?"

No one dared to look up.

"Great! Since someone wants to go on vacation early, they can go take a shower and change clothes now!"

Everyone in the locker room was stunned; even Cole, who was tying his shoelaces, stopped what he was doing.

“Professor,” Lyman began to speak.

“I know the score,” Wenger interrupted him, his voice hoarser than usual. “I know that kid on the other side plays like an alien.”

"I also know that the chance of turning things around is only about five percent."

"But this is Highbury, and we are Arsenal. Even if there is only a one percent chance, we will make our opponents remember what it costs to get out of here alive."

"Forget the scoreboard, think back to the first time you played football. No trophies, no wages, just pure joy."

Henry looked up and saw that the coach's eyes were shining.

"Pires, do you remember when we were kicking cans in the streets of Lance?"

Pires paused for a moment, then chuckled: "Back then, I dreamed of playing in Highbury."

"Vieira, what are you most looking forward to when you play for Tours U19?"

Ice cream after the weekend game.

The captain blurted out, and a few soft laughs echoed in the locker room.

Wenger nodded: "In the second half, I want you to find that feeling again. Not for me, not for the fans, just for football itself."

"Now, let's play some fun football. Let the world see why we're undefeated all season."

In the second half, Highbury Stadium was a sea of ​​red and white under the lights.

As the Arsenal players lined up again and walked out of the tunnel, a deafening roar erupted from the stands.

The chant of "Arsenal! Arsenal!" echoed throughout the stadium as fans waved scarves, seemingly trying to drown out the 2-2 score with their shouts.

Henry lowered his head and walked slowly toward the center circle, each step seemingly carrying a heavy determination.

Bergkamp followed behind him, his eyes sharp, as if to say, "We're not done yet."

Vieira and Gilberto Silva walked side by side, their expressions grim, like soldiers preparing for battle.

Lauren, Cole, Toure, Campbell – this almost unbeaten defensive line throughout the season stood silent and resolute. They weren't there to turn the tide, but to prove Arsenal's honor.

On the other hand, the Monaco players seemed exceptionally relaxed.

Morientes and Giuly chatted and laughed, as if victory was already in their grasp.

Bernardi and Pedretti even high-fived each other in midfield, as if celebrating in advance.

Maicon and Evra even made a "shh" gesture towards the stands, drawing angry shouts from Arsenal fans.

Roy chewed his gum and slowly walked towards the left winger position.

As he passed the Arsenal coaching bench, he paused slightly, his gaze falling on Wenger.

Wenger extended his hand: "Roy."

The young man walked over and shook the professor's hand: "Sir."

"Did you really say 'I most want to play for my team'?"

Roy shrugged nonchalantly: "Of course."

Wenger nodded: "But now they're destroying my team."

"That's football, sir."

Roy released his grip, saying, "Today I fight for Monaco."

A few puzzled boos came from the stands; no one understood why the Arsenal manager was talking to the opposing team's key player.

Wenger patted Roy on the shoulder one last time: "Then play well and show me how good you are."

As he was leaving, he suddenly narrowed his eyes, a sly glint in them: "You said that to Ferguson's face, didn't you?"

Roy did not answer.

Wenger nodded slightly, turned and walked back to the coaching bench, his steps a little lighter than before.

He didn't need Roy's answer—that moment of silence was enough.

163 miles away in Manchester, an elderly Scottish man might be watching television as Wenger has just defeated him, even if only verbally.

The referee blew the whistle to start the second half.

The shouts from Highbury grew even louder, as if they wanted to lift the stadium upside down.

After Monaco kicked off, Roy immediately passed the ball back to Bernardi, and the entire Arsenal team surged forward like a tidal wave.

Vieira and Gilberto acted like two moving walls, attempting to block Monaco's midfield passing lanes.

Monaco's midfield trio reacted quickly.

Rothen dropped back to receive the pass, and Pedretti and Bernardi immediately spread out, forming a triangle formation among the three.

Pedretti used his body to hold off Vieira, while Bernardi blocked Gilberto's pressing route, allowing Rothen to pass the ball to the wing.

Maicon received the ball and quickly advanced, but Ashley Cole had already blocked the passing angle.

Monaco's right-back could only pass the ball back, and Rothen regained possession.

This time, he faked a pass and cut past Vieira, who was making a diving tackle, before delivering a penetrating through ball.

Roy understood immediately and started the attack, while Toure chased after him desperately.

Monaco's prodigy made a sudden stop and change of direction near the baseline, causing Toure to lose his balance and slip to the ground.

Roy seized the momentary opening and passed the ball back in a triangular pattern, allowing Morientes to meet it in the middle and slot it home!

Lehmann made a diving save, and Campbell cleared the ball with a long kick.

Although the attack was unsuccessful, Monaco proved with their skillful teamwork that their midfield control was in no way inferior to Arsenal's.

Rothen wiped the sweat from his forehead and gave his teammates a thumbs up.

Pedretti and Bernardi exchanged a smile and continued to build their defensive line in midfield.

Wenger frowned on the sidelines.

To break through this midfield defense, the physicality of Vieira and Gilberto alone is not enough.

The professor turned and gestured to the bench, and Parlour began to warm up.

The air in Highbury was thick with the scent of tactical maneuvering.

50 minutes.

Bernardi was forced to clear the ball with a long kick, and it fell to Evra on the left wing.

Just as the French full-back was about to advance, Ljungberg closed in and made a vicious sliding tackle to clear the ball out of bounds.

As soon as Monaco threw the ball out of bounds, Lauren made a lightning-fast interception, and immediately launched a long pass to Henry.

Abidal chased back like a black lightning bolt, and just as Henry was about to break into the penalty area, he made a textbook tackle to stop the ball.

The sole of his shoe precisely caught the ball, dispossessing it from Henry's feet.

Henry staggered, his face filled with astonishment as he turned around.

Abidal had already calmly gotten up, gently pushed aside to avoid a counter-attack, and then cleared the ball with a long kick.

The entire movement was clean and crisp, as if it had been rehearsed hundreds of times.

Wenger raised an eyebrow on the sidelines, while European coaches watching on television jotted down the name of the 24-year-old center-back in their notebooks.

Ancelotti in Milan was even momentarily stunned.

The timing and elegance of that tackle reminded him of Maldini.

Deschamps' transformation of Abidal from a left-back to a center-back stemmed from his accurate understanding of the player's characteristics.

He recognized Abidal's outstanding athleticism, defensive awareness, and left-footed passing ability, and gradually transformed him into a versatile defender.

Through systematic training, his defensive anticipation and positioning abilities have significantly improved, increasing his success rate in duels by 30%; he has developed precise long passing techniques, with an average passing success rate of over 85% per game; and with his excellent lateral movement, clean tackles, and stable ball distribution, he can perfectly adapt to different defensive systems.

"Pass the ball quickly! Don't drag it out!"

Pedretti yelled at Bernardi, but Arsenal's pressure came too quickly.

Bernardi had just received a short pass from Roma when Ljungberg was already poised to pounce.

He hastily passed the ball back to Abidal, who didn't even have time to look up before Vieira blocked the forward passing lane.

"Long kick! Just go out there!" Squillaci shouted, waving his hand inside the penalty area.

Abidal swung his left foot and kicked it wide into the center circle.

But possession quickly returned to Arsenal.

"Are they crazy?"

Rothen, panting heavily, watched the Arsenal players pounce on him again like hungry wolves. "Still playing this hard? They're going to score three!"

"Ignore them," Morientes whispered as he dropped back to receive the pass. "Let's avoid cards and injuries; the final is more important."

Rothen nodded, but he also had some doubts.

Arsenal's running was even more frantic than in the first half, with every tackle feeling like a last-ditch effort.

Pires and Ljungberg took turns attacking Monaco's flanks, while Vieira and Gilberto held their ground firmly in midfield.

"Stay calm! Don't engage them in a direct confrontation!"

Bernardi yelled at his teammates, but he himself was forced to retreat repeatedly.

The Monaco players exchanged glances.

They didn't want to get injured or get cards, but Arsenal's relentless attack forced them to be on their toes.

The competition was far more difficult than they had imagined.

Just then, Roy suddenly dropped back to midfield.

He met Bernardi's pass with a deft flick of his foot, turning calmly before Vieira could close in, and then delivered a long diagonal pass to Giuly on the right wing.

After completing this brilliant dribble, he clapped his hands and shouted, "They want to keep scoring? Then we'll keep scoring too!"

The Monaco players' eyes lit up immediately.

Rothen was the first to respond: "Well said! Let them see our counterattack!"

Morientes straightened up and ran towards the front of the field.

Abidal yelled from the backfield: "Keep the formation! One at a time!"

But his tone was no longer as tense as before.

Roy's retreat to organize and encourage the team was like a shot in the arm for the whole team.

Monaco's passing suddenly became smoother, and the players' positioning regained its order.

The game was still tough, but at least they found their rhythm again.

In the 57th minute, Arsenal's corner kick was headed out of the penalty area by Squillaci, but Pedroti cleverly intercepted the ball, and Monaco's counter-attack was launched instantly.

Pedretti made no adjustments and directly delivered a diagonal pass to Rothen, who had dropped back to receive the pass.

Facing Gilberto's close marking, Rothen calmly turned his back to his opponent and suddenly flicked the ball with his heel. The ball scalpel-like through Arsenal's midfield defense, accurately finding Roy who was making a run down the left flank.

The moment Roy received the ball, the entire Highbury community saw that blue-black lightning bolt.

His acceleration was astonishing, like a sports car accelerating to its maximum speed in just two short steps. Lauren was already chasing at full speed, but could only watch helplessly as the distance between them widened in an instant.

A collective gasp rippled through the stands.

Arsenal fans stared wide-eyed; they had never seen anyone burst into such speed on the Highbury pitch.

Even Wenger on the sidelines unconsciously leaned forward; Roy's acceleration was half a step faster than the Henry he remembered.

Roy's cleats ripped through the grass, subtly slowing him down. Just as Lauren was about to catch up, he suddenly stopped and changed direction.

The Cameroonian border guard's cleats slipped on the wet, slippery grass, causing him to lose his balance and fall to the ground.

When Roy cut inside with the ball, Toure had to abandon his defensive position and move forward to cover.

Just as the Ivorian center-back pressed forward, Roy flicked his ankle and passed the ball to Rothen, who was unmarked at the edge of the penalty area.

Rothen didn't stop the ball, but sent a low through ball directly to Giuly, who made a run behind Ashley Cole and fired a low shot from a tight angle on the right side of the penalty area!
Lehmann made a desperate diving save, but the ball still slipped through his fingers and flew straight into the far corner!
3-2! Giuly sprinted towards the corner flag to celebrate, while Rothen and Roy hugged each other tightly.

Arsenal fans sat frozen in their seats, knowing that the team would need to score four goals in the final half hour to turn the game around—an impossible task.

On the sidelines, Wenger made a substitution with a serious expression.

Shabani Nonda stood next to the fourth official, waiting to replace the exhausted Bergkamp.

The Dutchman slowly walked to the sidelines, his jersey soaked with sweat.

The 34-year-old veteran knew very well that the moment his boots stepped out of bounds, it not only marked the end of his Champions League campaign this season, but it could also be his last chance to represent Arsenal on the Champions League stage.

Next year? He dared not think about it.

An old knee injury, increasingly sluggish reflexes, and the young striker the club is looking for—all of this makes "next year" seem so far away.

He high-fived Nonda, then walked toward the bench with his head down, without even glancing at the scoreboard.

Meanwhile, Monaco's bench also made substitutions.

Marcelo Gallardo stood on the sidelines, ready to replace the highly decorated Rothen.

The Argentinian tightened his shoelaces while keeping a close eye on the situation on the field.

Deschamps whispered a final warning in his ear: "Control the pace, don't give them a chance to fight back!"

67 minutes.

Arsenal's corner kick was cleared, and Monaco immediately launched a counter-attack.

Pedretti intercepted the ball near the center circle and quickly passed it to Giuly on the right wing.

Giuly dribbled the ball forward ten meters and then passed it across to Gallardo in the middle. The Argentine player pushed the ball directly into the open space on the left side without stopping it.

Roy surged forward like lightning and brought the ball down steadily on the left flank.

Facing Lauren's defense, he suddenly slowed down, used two consecutive stepover feints to create space, and then accelerated down the baseline.

Ashley Cole rushed to cover from the other side, but Roy had already driven to the baseline.

"Middle!"

Morientes raised his hand near the penalty spot, asking for the ball.

Roy delivered a precise triangular back pass with his right foot, the ball rolling rapidly along the grass towards the center of the penalty area.

Morientes deliberately let the ball slip by, cleverly drawing the defensive attention away from Toure and Campbell.

Gallardo calmly met the ball at the far post and deftly cut it off the moment Lehmann came out, causing the German goalkeeper to lose his balance.

The Argentine then tapped the ball into the empty net with his left foot!
4-2!

Marcelo Gallardo sprinted towards the corner flag, ripped off his jersey, and slammed it onto the grass.

This goal was more than just securing the victory for him; it was an outlet for the frustration he had accumulated throughout the season.

Roy grabbed Gallardo, who was celebrating: "Put it on quickly! Taking off your jersey will get you a yellow card!"

Gallardo froze abruptly: "When were these rules set?"

He glanced at the referee in a panic, frantically picking up his jersey, "Is it too late to put it back on now?"

“A new rule from February this year,” Roy said quickly, “FIFA just set it up: taking off your shirt to celebrate will result in a card.”

Gallardo swore in Spanish slang and haphazardly put on his jersey when Roy suddenly added, "Wait...it seems it doesn't officially take effect until July 1st."

Gallardo paused, his eyes widening: "Damn! What am I afraid of?"

After saying that, he ripped off the jersey he had only half-put on, arrogantly flung it onto the grass, spun around, and grinned at the referee.

The moment his soaked jersey spun and landed, the broadcast camera suddenly focused on his sweat-drenched back.

Between his shoulder blades were four crooked Chinese characters: “Serve the country with utmost loyalty”.

The Chinese reporters on the sidelines suddenly stood up.

"What's going on? This...this is impossible!"

He rubbed his eyes vigorously.

You see the four characters "Serve the country with utmost loyalty" on the back of an Argentinian who scored a goal in the Champions League semi-final.
It's like discovering a Guandi Temple in the Sahara Desert—that absurd sense of temporal and spatial dislocation makes you want to rub your eyes.

Seeing this, other reporters immediately turned their cameras around and frantically filmed this unexpected scene.

The Argentine was originally at odds with Deschamps and had planned to return to River Plate as early as last summer transfer window.

That night, the living room of the Juri family was packed with people.

The Champions League match between Milan and Juventus was on TV, but nobody was really interested in watching the game.

“I know many people are considering leaving, including myself. But tonight I’ve made up my mind—I’m going to stay and fight to the end with this team. It’s not about the salary, it’s not about fame, it’s about proving that we can make history. Monaco’s name can be engraved on the Champions League trophy. What about you? Are you willing to fight for that possibility with me?”

Gallardo glanced at Maldini running on the TV; the 34-year-old veteran was still giving it his all.

He took a swig of liquor, his Adam's apple bobbing: "Kid, you better not lie to me."

At that moment, he hugged Roy's shoulder tightly in celebration, but he didn't see the guilt that flashed in the young man's eyes.

Just a year ago, Roy had prepared persuasive words for Marquez, but the Mexican had already prepared to transfer to Barcelona.

70 minutes.

Deschamps made a substitution, with Pulso and Plasil standing on the sidelines, ready to replace Roy and Bernardi.

Roy jogged to the sidelines, his black hair soaked with sweat and plastered to his forehead.

His dark eyes remained sharp, and despite the weariness on his face, his imposing aura had not dissipated.

The soaked jersey clung to his body, outlining his well-proportioned muscles.

His tall, 1.84-meter frame cast a long shadow under the lights, and his black hair fell over his slightly reddened eyes, making his well-defined mixed-race face appear even more aloof.

His steps were steady, as if he had calculated the distance between each step.

A female fan in the stands suddenly screamed, but Roy didn't even flinch.

He casually brushed aside the hair stuck to the back of his neck, revealing the sun-tanned, wheat-colored skin of his neck.

This simple action caused the photographers on the sidelines to frantically press their shutters—the 19-year-old's profile in the picture already carried a dignity beyond his years.

The Neville brothers, Scholes, and O'Shea on the sidelines all straightened up simultaneously.

Scholes whistled almost inaudibly: "Now I understand why the old man insisted on buying him."

He squinted at Roy's figure. "That aura, you must have learned it from David, right?"

Gary Neville scoffed, "Come on, that kind of style is innate."

He pointed to his younger brother, "Phil has been training for twenty years, and he still walks like a penguin."

Phil Neville suddenly blushed and slapped his brother's hand away: "Bullshit! If Gary wasn't wearing a Manchester United jersey, none of the textile workers in Manchester would sleep with him!"

“Last week, a female fan asked me for an autograph, saying she liked the way I walk—like the champion racing pigeon her dad raised.”

As Nonda watched Roy's departing figure, the last bit of resentment in his chest finally dissipated.

It wasn't because I was less skilled that I lost my starting position; this kid is a completely different kind of being.

Roy's every sprint was like rewriting the rules, while Nonda himself was more like a diligent craftsman.

Coaches don't need to choose one or the other; they need two completely different weapons.

He wiped the sweat from his face, turned around, and ran back to his seat.

Before leaving, he even nodded in Roy's direction.

The movement was very subtle, but the camera still captured it—two people who were once irreconcilable enemies had reached a silent reconciliation.

Henry took a deep breath, his nostrils filled with the smell of grass and sweat.

He was all too familiar with these moments—the emergence of a genius always requires stepping onto the stage by the name of a legend.

Just as he dethroned Ian Wright at Highbury Stadium back then, people now say Roy stepped over the "King of Highbury" to reach the final.

Arsenal fans in the stands breathed a collective sigh of relief.

Every time Roy touched the ball, it made their hearts pound; now he was finally leaving the field.

Some fans even muttered, "Finally, they're down."

Roy walked to the sidelines, high-fived Pullso, and then took a towel from a staff member, casually draping it over his shoulder.

Deschamps patted Roy hard on the back and said in a deep voice, "Get some rest. We'll need you for the final."

Roy nodded, but his gaze remained fixed on the field.

After a few seconds of silence, he suddenly spoke up: "Boss, we did it."

Deschamps paused for a moment, then burst out laughing.

He wanted to remind him that it was only the semi-finals, but looking at the young man's burning eyes, he simply patted his shoulder and said, "Yeah, kid. We did it."

In the 89th minute, Arsenal won a corner kick.

The ball was sent into the penalty area, and in the ensuing scramble, Nonda suddenly burst forth, using his body to push Squillaci aside and deftly flicking the ball into the net. 3-4!

When the referee's three long whistles pierced the night sky, Highbury Stadium fell into an eerie silence.

The scoreboard was blaring 3-4, and Monaco players were already charging onto the pitch, while Arsenal players stood frozen in place, as if their souls had been ripped out.

Henry lowered his head, his hands resting on his knees, sweat dripping from his face onto the grass.

He stared at the mud stains on his shoes, the cheers of the Monaco players ringing in his ears, but it all seemed to be through a thick layer of glass.

Wenger stood on the sidelines, the collar of his trench coat fluttering slightly in the night breeze.

His gaze swept across the scoreboard, then over Vieira and Parlour (replacing Ljungberg) slumped on the grass, and finally settled on Deschamps, who was celebrating wildly.

The professor showed no anger or sigh; he simply adjusted his glasses and slowly walked toward his players.

He was the first to approach Henry, bent down, placed his hands on his disciple's shoulders, and whispered something in his ear.

Henry looked up, his eyes red-rimmed, but his lips were slightly pursed, and he nodded.

Next was Vieira. Wenger hugged him tightly and patted his back, as if comforting a wounded lion.

Parlour remained seated on the grass, while Wenger crouched down and gently rubbed his sweaty blond hair.

In the stands, Arsenal fans silently rose to their feet; some clapped mechanically, while others clutched their scarves and wiped their eyes.

Bill, an elderly fan in the North Stand, stared at Morientes embracing Roy and suddenly said to his son beside him, "We lost to a 19-year-old kid."

Lehmann sat in the goal for a long time, unwilling to get up, while Campbell pulled his jersey over his head and sat in the penalty area like a statue.

Pires walked to the sidelines and handed his jersey to a young fan, only to find that he couldn't even manage a fake smile.

Wenger said one thing to all the Arsenal players:

"Come back next year."

But May 2004 belonged only to Monaco.

Thierry Rolland's hoarse and passionate commentary resonated throughout France via TF1.

In Parisian cafes, beer glasses clinked in sync with his voice; fishermen in Marseille port turned off their engines, letting their boats rock with the waves; textile workers in Lyon stopped their sewing machines and collectively looked up at the old-fashioned television set hanging in the workshop.

Monaco!

Roland's distorted voice echoed in the window of the electronics store on Boulevard Saint-Germain, attracting passersby to stop and watch.

The lavender fields of Provence sway in the moonlight, and the TV antenna of the farmer's house is propped crookedly on the clothes rack.

The narration startled the chicken coop, but no one paid any attention to the frantic hens.

Even the security guards on duty at Versailles Palace secretly wrapped earphone wires around sashes and eavesdropped under the portrait of Louis XIV.

"Monaco! Monaco! Monaco has reached the Champions League final! This small team from the Mediterranean coast, a team that wasn't even considered a favorite to advance from the group stage at the beginning of the season, a young team led by Deschamps with an average age of less than 24—they did it! They defeated Arsenal 4-3, advancing to the final with a 7-4 aggregate score!"

"This is a glorious moment for French football! For 11 years since Marseille won the title in 1993, a Ligue 1 team has finally stood on the top stage of Europe! Look at this team—19-year-old Roy, 22-year-old Evra, 22-year-old Maicon, 24-year-old Abidal, and 27-year-old Giuly—they have swept across Europe with a youth storm! They defeated Bayern Munich, upset Real Madrid, and tonight they have conquered Highbury!"

"And their opponent will be the winner between Porto and Deportivo La Coruña! On May 26th, at the Schalke 5 Stadium, Monaco will represent French football in their quest for the European throne!"

"Remember this moment, France! This Monaco team may not have made any record-breaking signings, but they possess something more valuable than money—19-year-old Roy is developing here into a long-awaited superstar in Europe! Look at this kid, he's writing the future of football with his own feet!"

"From the Stade Louis II to Veltins-Arsenal, Roy, with his innate talent, created miracles with Monaco. From tonight onwards, the world will remember one name—that dark-haired boy dancing in the Arsenal penalty area, the most brilliant new star of French football!"

"Vive la Monaco! Vive la France!"

As the chant of "Long live France" faded, a brief silence fell over the entire country, from the Strait of Calais to Corsica.

One thought flashed through the minds of countless people sitting in front of their television sets:
"Go and take that damn championship!!!"

Deschamps stood in front of the bench, slowly raising his arms as if he were stretching after just waking up.

He even yawned, as if securing a spot in the finals was something he had expected all along.

The fourth official on the sidelines couldn't help but glance at him a couple more times.

I thought to myself, how can this person be so infuriating even when celebrating?

(End of this chapter)