When playing football, you should call it GOAT.

Chapter 17 No War During the Holiday (Please Read On!)

"Hey buddy! How about a hot, exciting, and high-energy Asado party at my place during this long holiday?"

As Roy drove up the winding mountain road to the Latirby training center, his phone rang. He pressed the speakerphone button, and Marcelo Gallardo's voice came through.

"What is Asado?" Roy asked, somewhat curious.

"Of course, it's the most authentic Argentine barbecue: skirt steak, brisket, blood sausage, bursting with juice when you bite into it, plus the national cocktail and mate tea."

"Not today, Gallardo."

Roy lost interest; he couldn't afford a private nutritionist yet, so he commissioned a doctor at the Monaco Medical Center to create a preliminary diet plan for him.

Generally speaking, as a professional football player, he cannot eat too much red meat.

"Why not? Oh, I see, you feel like there aren't any women around."

Marcelo Gallardo suddenly realized, his tone carrying a teasing "I understand you" tone.

"With Nice on one side and Monte Carlo on the other, there's no shortage of hot girls here."

Just as Marcelo Gallardo was excitedly explaining to him that men born in the Pampas would never lack cattle or horses, Roy offered him another "party plan."

Gallardo also displayed the subconscious reaction of all normal people to "King of Rolls".

"Seriously! Are you crazy?! Coming to the training base for extra training during the holidays?"

Roy laughed out loud and countered with Gallardo's words:
When are you going to kill Ludo?

"Hey, there's nothing between me and Ludo!"

Gallardo looked like a cat whose tail had been stepped on.

"It's because Deschamps doesn't know how to appreciate my football artistry!"

That's why you're sitting on the bench.

After a few casual words, Roy hung up the phone.

Amid the surprised looks of the club security guards, Roy walked into the training center with his bag on his back.

The training ground was deserted, with only a few reserve and youth team players living in the club's dormitory training in twos and threes. Many of these players were about the same age as him, or even a year or two older.

When Roy passed by, those who saw him would alert their companions, and then all eyes would follow him.

This reminded Roy of when he first entered La Fabrica, when Real Madrid would arrange for the young players who had just joined the youth academy to visit the first team's dressing room at the Bernabéu Stadium.

The door was ajar, revealing a luxurious interior. Neatly arranged cabinets bore the names: Redondo, Mijatovic, Davor Šuker, Seedorf, Hierro.
Even if you've never been here before, the first thought that comes to mind when you see it is: I've dreamt about this place.

Before leaving, each child would steal one last glance, as if Aladdin's cave were hidden there.

In his previous life, Roy had heard a saying: Every NBA player is Jordan in his own story.

He didn't find it inspiring at all; his statement was as ridiculous as using that documentary called "The Next Generation" to represent the younger generation.

The three letters NBA represent the fact that its rookie contracts are already worth seven figures.

In Jordan's story, you are an ant, but in the stories of those who were eliminated, you are already the chosen one.

The real talents have already been signed by agents. These kids are only kept because of trial invitations and youth training subsidies. Their contracts are 50 euros a week plus two meals in the canteen.

They might dream of wearing the number 7 or 10 jersey, with Ferguson, Wenger, Lippi, or Ancelotti in suits sitting in the stands. It doesn't matter who it is.

But the reality is that the soles of his sneakers are taped up because his father lost his job.

(This is a true story, and it hasn't improved even 20 years later. Mourinho once gave a pair of football boots to a young player who trained with Roma's first team.)
They knew that 99% of people would be eliminated and end up as mail carriers, supermarket stockers, or betting middlemen.

This is the existentialism on the football field. The youth training camp is the last monastery of our time, where young players dedicate their bodies to a nonexistent god, who occasionally manifests miracles such as being "temporarily promoted to the first team."

Roy resolved to remember these gazes fixed on him forever.

Always remember to keep your eyes level. The field is flat, the goal is on the opposite horizontal line, and victory will take you to higher places.

Roy arrived at the training ground.

He was surprised to find that there were already people training there, but none of them were names he recognized.

A young player named Nicolas Heathlen, only one year older than Roy, plays as a defensive midfielder.

Hitzlsperger was simply a beneficiary of the miracle of being "temporarily promoted to the first team," and nothing more.

He rose through the ranks from Monaco's youth academy to the first team but never made his first-team debut.

Roy's only impression of him was on the day he first arrived in Monaco, when Giuly introduced everyone to him and Heathlen nodded at him.

At that time, Hitzlsperger probably thought Roy, like him and several other 18- or 19-year-old players, was someone waiting for his chance.

The other two young centers may have thought at the time that Roy was there to compete with them.

"Can I call you RoRo?"

This was the only thing Heathrow said to him that day, in a friendly and gentle tone.

He would purse his lips slightly before speaking, as if testing the weight of his words.

But Roy then proved in a practice match that he wasn't there to wait for opportunities, but to create them.

He then used three games to relegate the team's starting center, Shabani, to the bench.

This shows that the two sides are not from the same world.

From then on, Heathlen never spoke to him again.

He maintained a silent presence in the locker room. Giuly would sometimes ask him to urge the club staff to check on any oversights, and young talents like Evra would instruct him to do things, such as fetching water or handing out towels, always with both hands.

When Deschamps explains tactics, he will take out a worn pocket notebook and write down the tactics in very small handwriting.

Roy greeted Heathlen.

He then went straight to the equipment storage area and borrowed the training equipment he needed from the staff.

While he jogs to warm up, someone helps him set up the ball machine and the moving human wall.

Today, Roy decided to practice shooting from the corners of the goal.

The training involved receiving a pass from the ball machine, facing a moving wall of players in front of the goal, and continuously hitting the top corner of the goal without stopping the ball.

After each shot, they immediately turn back to simulate a counter-attack rhythm.

Next came one-on-one reaction training.

He asked a teaching assistant on duty to randomly shine a laser pointer on the ground, and Roy had to touch the ball to the spot of light within a fraction of a second.

After that, he will need to do one-on-one training in a small space.

But this teaching assistant was over forty years old and clearly unable to provide effective confrontation and pressure.

Roy then decided to ask Heathlen, who was training nearby, for help.

"Really?" He seemed a little excited.

"Won't this disrupt your training rhythm?" Roy said.

"This is a valuable experience for me."

One-on-one dribbling drills will designate a small area where the attacking player must break through the defense and complete a shot within 10 seconds.

The defending team can tackle and engage in physical contact, except for sliding tackles, in order to simulate the pressure of a real game as much as possible.

In addition, a moving wall of players was set up in front of the goal to simulate the complex shooting environment under pressure.

Despite this, Roy still managed to burst down Heathlen.

He couldn't defend against it even once.

"You broke through sixty-two times and scored fifty-three goals."

Roy chuckled, panting, as he looked at the out-of-breath Heathlen, whose stamina had been completely depleted by the intense defense.

"Your shooting success rate is a bit low. Thank you for your sparring. Let me treat you to dinner."

Heathlen added, "Eighty-five point four percent, that's outrageous."

Roy raised his eyebrows.

His impression of Heathrow deepened considerably.

"If I can defend against them a few times in the future, it might mean that I have the ability to get a chance to play, or even sign a professional contract." Heathlen is nineteen years old and still holds a youth team contract.

"If you keep practicing extra during this period, we can train together."

Roy extended an invitation, as he definitely needed someone to train with while the other players were on vacation.

If Heathrow also felt it would benefit him.

Roy would then no longer have any moral burden.

Heathrow was flattered and agreed. He was born into a working-class family in Chaumont, France, and was the eldest son with five younger siblings.

His dream wasn't an abstract football dream, but a professional contract.

He is a person who waits for an opportunity.

In the evening, after training.

Roy finally couldn't resist the repeated invitations of the "great Argentine number ten" and drove to his residence in Nice.

Marcelo Gallardo's home is located in the La Peroz cliffside apartment complex, a prime residential area in Nice, where the monthly rent ranges from €12,000 to €18,000, and is extremely luxurious.

Even without Deschamps's trust, Gallardo is still a top star in Ligue 1 with a hefty salary.

When Roy's little Renault drove in, his henchmen were already waiting at the entrance of the villa area to make sure Roy wouldn't be questioned or harassed.

Feeling a little embarrassed, Roy decided to treat Heathlen to a meal without paying for it himself, opting instead to freeload.

The three-meter-long handmade wrought iron grill uses hardwood charcoal imported from Argentina, which emits a cedar-like aroma when burning.

An Argentinian kebab chef earning 500 euros per hour uses silver tongs to turn meat.

The women from Eastern Europe didn't even bother to wear coats outdoors, opting instead for light dresses, their eyes brimming with alluring charm.

"Welcome, my best brother!"

Gallardo was wearing a brightly patterned cotton nightgown with a platinum necklace around his neck, and he had his arms outstretched.

"The rising star of Monaco!"

Roy embraced him, and all eyes were on the two of them, including the models at the party, the perfect embodiment of desire and wildness.

Gallardo grinned mischievously, pulling Roy close while glancing at Heathlen behind him. He pulled down his sunglasses and looked at him with a knowing expression—Roy didn't know what wearing sunglasses at night meant, but people always did it.

"My brother is still single, you know what I mean."

Amidst the complex gazes, Roy felt he had become the prey.

They were not guests, but "living works of art" in this grand feast. Every curve, every glance, silently proclaimed: there is no morality here, only conquest.

This party was like Argentine football itself: the first half was a gorgeous tango, and the second half was a battle of alcohol and hormones.

As it should be.

"Why did we come to a place like this?"

Late at night, Gallardo pushed aside the soup bowl in front of him. A dozen or so glutinous rice balls floated in the clear sugar water, like snowballs after a snowfall.

This is a Chinese restaurant in Nice. The owner is sitting behind the counter not far away, smiling at the diners at this table.

Roy sat opposite Gallardo, scooping up rice balls with a spoon and blowing on them to cool them down.

The moment you bite into it, glossy black sugar oozes out, mixed with the aroma of lard and the soft crunch of sugar granules.

The glutinous rice balls were authentic, and he enjoyed them very much. The sweetness was just right, hitting the threshold of "evoking childhood memories without being so cloying as to make you frown."

"Today is a traditional festival, and eating this symbolizes that the family should be together and stay together forever."

Roy patiently explained.

"Cool! For the family!"

Gallardo laughed. Catholic countries do indeed emphasize family, and no matter what you think in your heart, you'll always say it.

Everyone is a Family Hero.

"Just like when we eat grapes and make wishes during the New Year, we eat one grape every second as the New Year's bell rings, each grape representing a wish for the month."

"A very meaningful custom."

Roy went along with what he said.

That evening at the party, he made a phone call home.

He had initially considered going home for the holiday that morning, but ultimately decided against it.

not the right time yet.

Happy Lantern Festival!

When paying the bill, Roy left the meal cost and tip on the table and wished the owner a happy holiday in Chinese.

After a moment of surprise, the boss responded with a smile.

In the semi-open kitchen behind the counter, the proprietress and the chef also wished each other a happy holiday. Judging from their accents, they were probably from the southeastern coastal provinces, but Roy couldn't quite tell.

"Hey buddy, I'm thinking of getting some Chinese characters tattooed on my body. Any recommendations?"

Gallardo looked curiously at some of the Chinese characters in the store. From a semiotic point of view, Chinese characters do indeed carry an ancient and mysterious aesthetic value.

It has also become a popular choice for tattoo designs among many football players.

Aguero has the word "love" tattooed on his left arm.

Balotelli has the word "Power" tattooed on his right shoulder blade.

Pato has the word "dream" tattooed on his right arm.

Marcelo has a horse tattoo on his right calf.

What do you think of these words?

Gallardo pointed to the red banner outside the Chinese restaurant, his eyes lighting up: "What does this mean? I think it's really cool!"

"A blessing."

Roy frowned. The sign read, "Safe travels."

"Really? Can I get it tattooed on my back?"

"I don't really recommend getting a four-character tattoo. I suggest you get 'Serve the country with utmost loyalty' instead."

"What does that mean? What significance does it have?"

"Life, for Argentina!"

On the way to the parking lot, Roy explained the meaning of loyalty to one's country to Gallardo in a language he could understand.

"One day, in a football match between Argentina and Brazil, Argentina suffered a crushing defeat. As a result, Brazil captured Maradona and imprisoned him in Santos. Pelé did not allow him to live in a house, but only in a manger."

"Hey! Bailey isn't that kind of person."

Gallardo shouted.

"Brazilians wouldn't be so disrespectful to Maradona."

"This is all made up, listen to me!"

"And from then on, Argentina never beat Brazil in a football match again. An Argentine boy named Marcelo was determined to change all of this. His mother was great. She always encouraged her son and tattooed these characters on his back so that he would always remember his determination!"

"But in a final, just when Marcelo was about to score the winning goal against Brazil and bring Maradona back to Buenos Aires, the Argentine coach was bribed and wanted to substitute Marcelo."

"jerk!"

Gallardo is a pretty good atmosphere guy.

"Marcelo didn't want to leave the field because his childhood dream was to bring Maradona back and restore Argentina's glory! At this moment, he discovered that the referee had also been bribed by the Brazilians, and he received twelve yellow cards in succession."

"Damn Brazilians!"

Gallardo was filled with righteous indignation.

I wasn't satisfied with what I wrote yesterday, so I deleted it after finishing it. I broke my promise to update with Chapter Two; this chapter is a long one, I apologize!

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(End of this chapter)