When playing football, you should call it GOAT.

Chapter 164 One Opportunity
On the morning of May 26, 2004, Roy woke up in his bed at the Marriott Hotel.

He drew back the curtains, and the morning light of Gelsenkirchen shone on his face.

He took a deep breath, the crisp air bringing him fully awake—today was the Champions League final, one of the most important days of his life.

At 7:30 a.m., the entire Monaco team had breakfast at the Marriott Hotel restaurant.

Coffee, bread, and fruit were laid out on the long table, but no one was actually eating them.

The veterans chatted in hushed tones, while the young players stared blankly at their plates, the occasional clinking of knives and forks.

Roy sat by the window with a glass of orange juice that had barely been touched in front of him.

He broke off a piece of croissant, and crumbs fell onto the tablecloth, which he gently rubbed between his fingers.

His gaze slowly swept across the restaurant.

Giuly sat silently, Rothen stared at the plate in front of him, and Morientes looked out the window.

Bernardi and Pedretti were talking quietly, Abidal was eating breakfast slowly, and Ribery was fiddling with the cutlery.

Even the usually composed Pintus seemed distracted.

The entire restaurant was shrouded in an unusual quiet, broken only by the occasional clinking of cutlery.

His teammates glanced at him every now and then; this 19-year-old key player was going to lead them in the Champions League final tonight.

Deschamps walked over with a coffee and patted him on the shoulder: "Don't be nervous."

“I’m not nervous,” Roy said calmly.

Giuly stared at his coffee cup: "I dreamt about missing a penalty kick last night, and I woke up three times."

"I won the Champions League twice with Real Madrid."

Morientes poked at the fried egg on his plate with his fork.

"But I've never felt like this before. I woke up at three in the morning, covered in sweat, and my heart was pounding like I'd just finished an overtime game."

Juli looked up: "This time is different, isn't it?"

"Of course it's different."

Morientes' voice suddenly became very soft, "At Real Madrid, I'm just a supporting player. Tonight... tonight is my turn to prove to the Bernabéu that they abandoned someone they shouldn't have abandoned."

Roy smiled: "Fernando, we'll prove you right."

“No,” Morientes shook his head, “we’re here together to prove Monaco isn’t just a supporting character.”

Evra suddenly laughed: "Let those big clubs see what a real team is like."

"That's it."

Roy's voice was calm. "What do we have to be nervous about? In the past year and a half, how many opponents have we crushed in Ligue 1? Lyon, Marseille, Paris, which one haven't we beaten to a pulp? We said we would reach the Champions League final, and now we're standing here, aren't we?"

"Porto is here because they narrowly defeated Deportivo La Coruña, Manchester United, and Lyon. But if any of these opponents had made it to the final, the outcome would have been the same – because the other team in the final would have been us, Monaco. It wasn't that we were lucky to meet Porto; it was that they fought their way to the final to face us. The result would have been the same for any team."

“Listen, after summer some may go to big clubs, some may retire. But after tonight, we want the world to remember that if this Monaco team can stay together, they will be the biggest favorites for the Champions League every year. We want history books to say: Monaco in 2004 was not a dark horse, but a team that should have won the title.”

"Ninety minutes later, when people talk about this team, they'll say: 'Look, that's real football. Strong, united, never give up. How many more Champions League titles could they have won if they hadn't disbanded?'"

Deschamps stood to the side, his gaze sweeping over everyone: "Remember this feeling. Take it to the pitch."

The restaurant quieted down, but something was gathering.

Morientes picked up his water glass: "To prove it."

"To prove it."

The five cups gently clinked together.

Roy suddenly stood up, raised his water glass: "For victory!"

All the Monaco players in the restaurant stopped what they were doing and turned to look at him.

"So that after tonight," Roy's voice echoed in the restaurant, "we can all be called Champions League winners!"

"For the championship!"

More than twenty voices rang out at the same time.

The sound of the water glasses colliding was crisp and loud, like the opening whistle.

The pitch at the AufSchalke Stadium gleamed softly in the May sun.

Both teams occupied their respective halves of the field for final practice sessions, while reporters on the sidelines seized the precious 15 minutes to take photos.

On Porto's side, Mourinho had his hands in his training shirt pockets, his eyes following the players' running routes.

Costinha orchestrated the passing in the backfield, while Deco and Dere played a one-two in the attacking third.

Baja stood in front of the goal, loudly directing the defensive line's positioning.

In Monaco's half, Deschamps was discussing something with his assistant coach.

Roy dribbled down the left flank at breakneck speed, while Morientes received his cross in the center.

Giuly and Rothen were practicing their coordinated moves on the right flank.

Evra and Maicon took turns making runs forward to assist in the attack.

Mourinho's gaze crossed the center line and locked onto the 19-year-old Monaco left winger.

Roy easily dribbled past Squillaci and fired a shot that went straight into the top corner.

The Portuguese man frowned almost imperceptibly, then turned and said a few words to his assistant.

Flashbulbs went off one after another on the sidelines as reporters scrambled to capture the final moments before the decisive battle.

The 15 minutes passed quickly, and staff began clearing the area.

Players from both teams headed to the locker room, the air thick with the tension of an impending big match.

At the Gelsenkirchen City Square, Monaco's red and white flags almost completely covered the fan section.

Fans arrived as early as six in the morning, dragging beer crates to reserve spots, and by noon the square was packed with people.

Below the big screen, a group of middle-aged men wearing Monaco jerseys were leading the singing of the team's anthem through megaphones. Every time they sang "Allez Monaco," a burst of stomping erupted from the crowd.

In the corner open-air bar, Porto fans huddled around a few tables in the corner.

Whenever they tried to raise their blue and white scarves, they were drowned out by the cheers of the Monaco fans.

“This is Germany!” shouted a flushed Monaco fan, raising a beer mug. “Who even remembers what Porto is?”

His friends burst into laughter, splashing beer foam everywhere.

Long queues formed at the temporary shops on the east side of the square.

The most sought-after items were T-shirts printed with Roy's number 10 and the words "Champions League Final," and the shop owner was busy restocking.

“We sold three hundred items this morning,” he said, wiping his sweat. “That Monaco kid is hotter than Beckham now.”

Several French television reporters weaved through the crowd to conduct interviews.

Whenever the camera was pointed at them, Monaco fans would shout "Champions!" at the top of their lungs, and some even took off their shirts to reveal the Monaco team logo tattoo on their backs.

How many goals do you think Monaco can win tonight?

A reporter from French television held up a microphone to a middle-aged man whose face was flushed.

"Three starting points!"

The man patted his beer belly and roared, "Roy bursts down the left, Giuly cuts inside on the right, Morientes bombards with a header—those Portuguese farmers from Porto simply can't stop him!"

In a corner, an elderly fan wearing a vintage Monaco jersey was surrounded by German reporters.

“I’ve been following this team since 1978,” he said, pointing to the faded team logo on his jersey. “But tonight is different. We have the strongest kids in history.”

He shakily pulled a crumpled newspaper from his pocket, which featured a picture of Roy's goal against Arsenal. "Look at that look in his eyes, just like a young Napoleon!"

Two young girls squeezed in front of the camera, their faces painted with the Monaco red and white flag.

“Deschamps was my dad’s idol,” the girl with the ponytail said, “but now all the girls in France dream of Roy!”

Her friend immediately added, "And he's much better than Zidane was at 19; the data doesn't lie!"

Suddenly a commotion arose, and the crowd automatically parted to make way.

Eight burly male fans slowly walked over carrying a giant, homemade jersey—a patchwork Monaco jersey with Roy's number 10 printed on the front and Morientes' number 18 on the back.

"This is something we made while staying up all night," the leader of the group told the reporters who surrounded him. "Morientes was thrown away like trash by Real Madrid, but tonight he'll make the Bernabéu cry their eyes out!" When a Sky Sports reporter randomly interviewed a Monaco fan who was drinking beer, the guy shoved the beer glass into the reporter's hand: "Have a sip before you interview! German beer is good. Just like the Monaco team, the more you savor it, the better it gets!"

"Listen, buddy."

The Monaco fan, reeking of alcohol, grabbed the Sky Sports reporter by the shoulder, beer foam splashing onto the reporter's microphone. "Our city has waited for this championship for a full forty years! Forty years ago, when Monaco was still struggling in Ligue 2, your English teams were already showing off in the Champions League."

He let out a burp and poked the reporter's chest hard with his finger: "Now tell me, how many Champions League teams does London have? Hmm? Chelsea? Arsenal? Tottenham?"

Seeing the reporter's embarrassed expression, he laughed heartily, "Zero! In all of England, besides Liverpool and Manchester United... what else is there? Everyone else is just there to make up the numbers!"

A group of Monaco fans gradually gathered around, and some started whistling and jeering.

The drunkard became more and more agitated as he spoke: "Look at our number 10, he's only 19 and he's already led the team to the final! You English media are always praising Rooney, but that kid can't even get a Europa League spot at Everton!"

"This city needs this championship. Not for money, not for fame. It's to let the world know that Monaco is not just about casinos and yachts, but also about passion and dreams."

“Tonight,” he said, raising his refilled beer glass, “we’ll either go home with the trophy, or we’ll leave our blood and sweat on the grass at AufSchalke!”

The surrounding fans chanted in unison: "Allez Monaco!"

The Sky Sports reporter silently pressed the stop button and put the recorder back in his pocket.

He knew all too well that if this segment were broadcast, the entire football pub in London would be in an uproar.

At 4 p.m., the big screen began playing highlights of the two teams' Champions League matches this season.

When Roy's volley against Real Madrid was shown, the entire square erupted in cheers.

Beer glasses clinked in the air, and someone tossed red and white balloons into the sky.

In a corner, a few Porto fans quietly packed up their flags, preparing to enter the stadium early.

Their blue against the red ocean is like an isolated island about to be submerged by the rising tide.

“Ignore those French bastards,” someone said to their companion without looking up. “Last year, the Celtic fans in Glasgow, those were real fans, they applauded their opponents even after losing. And look at these nouveau riche? What can they do besides throw beer on people?”

A companion wearing a baseball cap chimed in, "Celtic fans have won the UEFA Fair Play Award. These Frenchmen?"

Twenty meters away, a group of Monaco fans were making throat-slitting gestures at them.

Younger Porto fans couldn't resist rushing over, but were held back by their teammates.

"What did Jose say? Let your opponents use all their energy to shout before the match."

They began to hum Porto's team song in hushed tones, their voices quickly drowned out by the sea of ​​red and white.

But whenever the Monaco fans paused their cheers, you could always hear this small team continuing to chant: "Portosempre Porto".

The elderly man leading the group gave the flagpole a final inspection and suddenly pulled a photograph from his pocket—a clipping of Mourinho kneeling in celebration after winning the UEFA Cup last year.

“After today,” he showed the photos to everyone, “we’re going to collect new headlines.”

They carried the flag and walked against the flow of red and white people towards the stadium.

As they passed through the area where Monaco fans were most concentrated, someone spilled beer on their shoes.

But no one stopped. The blue and white flags fluttered stubbornly against the wind, like a lighthouse that refused to go out in a storm.

Porto's team bus slowly drove into the outer passage of the stadium, and suddenly a deafening chorus of boos erupted outside the window.

Hundreds of Monaco fans surrounded the perimeter fence, waving red and white flags wildly.

Mourinho's voice came from the front of the carriage: "Remember, their left-back Evra likes to push forward."

Just then, a huge banner flashed past the car window, depicting a cartoon of Deco being beaten by Roy.

The Monaco bus slowly drove into the passageway, and the view outside the window suddenly changed.

A few Porto fans suddenly pushed their way out of the crowd and held up a hand-drawn caricature: a Russian nesting doll wearing a crown was stuffing bundles of euros into the Monaco team crest.

The words "Potassium Fertilizer Football" were painted in large red paint at the top of the image.

Deschamps' tactical explanation was interrupted by a loud banging on the car window: "Roy, you need to watch out for Costinha's cover!"

Before he finished speaking, a huge portrait of Mourinho suddenly appeared on the roadside, the Portuguese man's ferocious expression painted as that of a vampire.

The Porto bus was slowly making its way through the last bend when it was suddenly interrupted by a piercing blare from a loud horn.

Several Monaco fans, holding megaphones, shouted hoarsely through the car windows: "Roy is going to beat your whole team tonight! Mourinho, get ready to go back to Portugal!"

One of them even climbed up a lamppost, waving a homemade red and white flag with a large "3-0" painted on it in blue.

"did you see it?"

He gestured with his fingers towards the window of the Porto team bus, "Roy scored two, Morientes headed one!"

His companions chanted in unison, "Go home! Go home! Jose, go home!"

Mourinho proceeded to give tactical instructions: "Dre, you need to press Squillaci immediately."

As the Monaco team bus entered the same section of road, Porto fans chanted "Portuguese champions" in unison.

Deschamps tapped the back of his seat: "...Giuly, Bernardi protects your ribs when you cut inside."

Suddenly the car was shrouded in shadow, and on the Champions League poster hanging on the outer wall of the stadium, Roy and Deco's photos were placed side by side on either side of the trophy.

As the two buses came to a stop in front of the players' tunnel, the last sound to reach the windows was a mixture of French profanities and Portuguese shouts.

Mourinho's final words were, "Let them see what true iron-willed defense is."

The words of Deschamps, "To vindicate French football," faded away with the sound of the car door opening.

Roy was the last to step off the bus, and Eminem's "Lose Yourself" was playing at the very beginning of his headphones:

"Look, if you had one shot, or one opportunity"

(Pay attention, this is your only chance.)

"To seize everything you ever wanted, one moment"

(Seize everything you've always dreamed of, right now.)

"Would you capture it or just let it slip?"

(Will you hold on tight, or let it slip away?)
Roy looked up, and the flashes of light instantly created a blinding white blur.

Cheers erupted from all directions, and his name was shouted loudly.

He squinted and strode toward the players' tunnel amidst countless cameras and waving arms.

Behind him, a young fan wearing his number 10 jersey was being held back by security, shouting his name at the top of his lungs.

In the dressing room, Monaco's President Rainier III and Crown Prince Albert had just left.

"Lads, tonight you represent the glory of Monaco. Regardless of the outcome, as long as you give it your all, you are the pride of the kingdom. Especially Roy, your performance has been outstanding; keep it up."

The prince encouraged the Monaco players, especially praising Roy.

“It’s time to go on stage.”

Deschamps clapped his hands, and Roy and Giuly immediately stood up, their eyes resolute.

The atmosphere in the locker room instantly became tense. The team members stood up one after another, their footsteps neat and powerful, like an army about to go into battle.

On the other side, Mourinho stood in the center of the locker room, his sharp gaze sweeping over each player.

"Listen up, guys!"

Mourinho's voice pierced the silence of the locker room like a razor's edge, his gaze sweeping across every face, making sure everyone felt his determination.

"Monaco is strong? Yes! They have technique, they have star players, and they play beautiful football! But so what? They're used to winning elegantly in Ligue 1, used to their opponents being polite to them! But who are we? We are Porto! We're not here to play beautiful football, we're here to tear them apart!"

He suddenly raised his voice and slammed his fist into his palm.

"What are they afraid of? They're afraid of physical contact! They're afraid of the tempo! They're afraid we'll relentlessly attack them like mad dogs! Deco, you need to suffocate their midfield! Carvalho, mark that Roy tightly, don't let him have the ball comfortably for even a second! Jorge Costa, the defense, give them a shout, let them know that if they want to score, they'll have to get over our corpses first!"

"Run! Fight! Fight for every inch of grass! Make them uncomfortable every time they get the ball, make them afraid!"

He approached the players, lowered his voice, but each word seemed to pierce their hearts like a bullet.

"They think they're a strong team? Fine! Let them see what a real strong team is! We're not as young or as famous as them, but we have one thing—hunger! We'll let all of Europe know that Porto isn't here to be a supporting player; we're here to conquer!"

Finally, he took a deep breath and almost roared it out.

"So now, get out there! Use your blood and your fighting spirit to take down those Frenchmen!"

The locker room erupted in a deafening roar as the players, their eyes bloodshot, charged out like a pack of wild beasts unleashed from their cages.

(End of this chapter)