When playing football, you should call it GOAT.

Chapter 182 All geniuses live in the shadow of another genius

With the first half nearing its end, France took a 2-1 lead again.

Scolari stood on the sidelines, hands in his pockets, brow furrowed.

His tactical arrangements were sound, and Portugal's performance was excellent.

Especially the young Cristiano Ronaldo, who was unstoppable in the European Championship, but even so, they still couldn't stop the French team's attack.

Scolari's gaze swept over the French players on the field—Zidane, Vieira, Makelele, these veterans were no longer at their peak, and might even retire after this European Championship.

But unfortunately, Roy was standing right next to them.

This young man was like a drawn sword, so sharp it was frightening.

His speed, composure, and finishing ability completely compensated for the decline in physical fitness of the French veterans.

Scolari gritted his teeth and sighed inwardly—even the best tactics can sometimes be no match for a flash of genius.

After Portugal restarted the game, Ronaldo, Figo, and Deco constantly made runs and cuts in midfield, trying to break through the French defense.

Pauleta roams the attacking third, waiting for his chance.

But the French team's midfield was like a moving wall.

Vieira and Makelele firmly controlled the middle, while Zidane and Giuly provided support on the flanks, making it difficult for Portugal's attack to advance into the danger zone.

The Portuguese players could only pass the ball laterally, trying to find a breakthrough.

During a pass to the right flank, French center-back Abidal suddenly pressed forward and made a clean sliding tackle to steal the ball.

He looked up to observe, then sent a long pass with his right foot, accurately finding Roy on the right wing.

Roy had his back to the sideline, and Miguel was right behind him, clutching the hem of his jersey with his right hand.

The ball flew from Abidal's direction and was about to reach his feet.

Just as the ball was about to touch the ground, Roy suddenly lifted his right foot and gently tapped it with the sole of his foot—not to stop the ball, but to flick the ball, which was still in mid-air, to the left and back!

His body twisted with the movement, his shoulders swayed, and he turned 180 degrees, but he never looked down at the ball.

Miguel was completely thrown off balance by this move.

He thought Roy would stop the ball and turn, but the opponent didn't even let the ball touch the ground, and directly volleyed it into the air.

The ball swept across the halfway line, bypassed three Portuguese players, and landed precisely at Zidane's feet on the left wing!
Zidane controlled the ball with his chest, and facing Costinha's tackle, deftly flicked it over the head of the Portuguese midfielder with his toe.

Before the ball even hit the ground, he deftly tapped it with the instep of his foot, sending it into Henry's sprinting path!

Henry burst forth like an arrow, instantly shaking off Andrade's defense.

At the same time, Roy, who had completed the pass, also made a high-speed run down the right flank, and the two formed a two-pronged attack towards the penalty area.

The Portuguese defense frantically tracked back, with Carvalho and Miguel desperately trying to get back, but the speed of the French duo rendered their efforts futile.

Henry dribbled forward at high speed, and just as he was about to enter the penalty area, he suddenly changed direction and cut inside.

Carvalho chased after him relentlessly, keeping close behind.

Just as Carvalho was about to block the shot, Henry delivered a left-footed cross, sweeping the ball towards the center.

Roy arrived in a flash, and just as Andrade lunged for a tackle, he gently flicked the ball with his right foot, causing it to obediently roll to the right, narrowly avoiding the sliding tackle.

At this moment, goalkeeper Ricardo had already rushed out of his goal and was blocking the near post.

Roy made a move as if to shoot, but at the moment of contact with the ball, he flicked his ankle and passed the ball back to Henry, who had already shaken off his defender.

Henry did not hesitate when faced with an open goal.

He calmly pushed the ball with his right foot, and it rolled along the grass into the net.

3-1! France extends their lead!

The entire goal-scoring process was seamless – Henry's breakthrough and pass, Roy's skillful back-and-forth movement, and finally, his calm finishing.

Portugal's defense was completely torn apart, and Ricardo knelt in front of the goal, helplessly watching the ball in the net.

French fans watching on television erupted in cheers.

In a Parisian bistro, fans in blue jerseys jumped up from their seats, chanting "Allez les Bleus!" (Come on, Azzurri!), their voices almost drowning out the commentators' shouts on television.

In an apartment in Marseille, several young people were huddled on the sofa, having already stood up the moment Roy passed the ball back.

When Henry slotted the ball into the net, they jumped and danced with their arms around each other's shoulders, one of them even throwing a cushion at the ceiling in his excitement, hitting the chandelier.

The chandelier swayed, casting messy shadows on the wall, much like their ecstatic mood at that moment.

In a family living room in Lyon, an elderly man with gray hair hugged his grandson tightly.

The little boy, wearing a jersey with Roy's name on it, excitedly waved his fist, while the old man, with tears in his eyes, murmured to himself, "This is football, this is our football!"

At a seaside bar in Menton, French football fans in the outdoor seating area suddenly burst into a unified chant.

They pounded on the wooden table, tapped their feet to the beat, and sang in slightly drunk but passionate voices: "Roi est notre roi! Roi est notre roi!" (Roi is our king!)

"Un but de plus pour notre roi!" (Score another goal for our king!) The singing grew louder and louder.

The Mediterranean Sea in the distance surged with waves, as if cheering for the goal.

A middle-aged man wearing a French national team jersey even climbed onto the table, raising his arms to receive cheers from those around him, until the waiter, both amused and exasperated, pulled him down.

Meanwhile, in every corner of Portugal, viewers in front of their televisions fell into a brief silence.

In a Lisbon café, fans in red jerseys stared blankly at the screen, some with their coffee cups hanging in mid-air, having long forgotten to sip them.

In a family in Porto, the father sighed and ruffled his son's hair. The little boy pouted, his eyes glistening with tears of resentment.

On this night, all of France was immersed in a frenzied anticipation of victory.

After scoring, Henry ran wildly in celebration with his arms outstretched, his face beaming with ecstasy.

Roy and Zidane ran towards him laughing, and the three of them hugged each other tightly.

Henry suddenly felt a hand pat his bald head.

He smiled and lowered his head, habitually assuming it was Zidane.

When he looked up, he found Roy winking at him, and the hand that had been "committing the crime" hadn't had time to retract.

Henry's eyes widened immediately, and he opened his mouth as if to say something.

That brat actually dared to touch his head!
But then I thought about it again, and realized that if Roy hadn't selflessly passed the ball back, it wouldn't have gone in at all.

He had no choice but to swallow back the complaints that were on the tip of his tongue, which finally turned into a helpless sigh.

As the whistle blew to end the first half, the French players slowly walked toward the players' tunnel.

At first glance, this team does indeed show signs of age.

Zidane walked slowly with his shiny bald head, his tired eyes still gleaming with wisdom.

Vieira, panting heavily and wiping away sweat, still had a fierce look in his eyes, his wrinkles revealing a fierce fighting spirit.

Lizarazu walked at the very back, limping.

Their steps were not light, and they even showed signs of fatigue, but everyone's eyes were exceptionally bright.

Among this group of veterans, Roy stood out like a bolt of lightning.

He jogged along easily, his black hair damp with sweat and plastered to his forehead, his eyes so bright they seemed to ignite the entire stadium.

This young man's energy and vigor seemed to inject new vitality into the entire team.

The French fans in the stands stood up and applauded.

What they saw was an old lion king with his pride, but with a young alpha wolf by his side.

This team bears the marks of time, yet radiates a renewed vigor.

When the experience of the veterans and the energy of the young players were perfectly combined, they achieved that devastating performance in the first half.

The shadows of the players' tunnel gradually swallowed their figures, but their regal aura lingered in the air above the stadium for a long time.

Figo put his arm around Ronaldo's shoulder and walked toward the players' tunnel.

The young Portuguese man's curly hair was damp with sweat and clung to his reddened forehead, his handsome profile taut.

Several female fans in the stands clung to the railing, their voices trembling with tears, shouting, "Cristiano, don't lose heart!"

"We'll support you forever!"

One of the blonde girls even had tears in her eyes, and the corner of the Portuguese flag she was clutching was crumpled.

Cristiano Ronaldo looked up at the stands, nodded, and forced a smile.

Huang Jianxiang's signature passionate voice rang out in the studio:
"Half time! France leads 3-1! Look at Roy! Two goals and one assist, is this really a 19-year-old? He's a combination of Zidane and Henry!"

"The first goal was a direct free kick, the second was a chip shot that Ricardo touched with his fingertips but still couldn't stop, and the assist was even more selfless. After receiving the ball, he pretended to pass it! With a flick of his ankle, it was perfect! Henry had a whole half-open goal in front of him! This wasn't an assist, it was clearly handing Henry a loaded gun!"

"Scolari must be worried in the locker room right now – defending against Zidane is difficult enough, and now a younger Roy has emerged! If they continue like this in the second half, Portugal might be going home early!"

At 3:45 a.m. in a Beijing hutong, several shirtless old men gathered around a small 14-inch TV with static-filled screens, their palm-leaf fans long since put aside.

Grandpa Wang slapped his thigh and exclaimed, "Hey! This French kid is really something else! Look at his footwork, it's way better than any of our foreign players at the Workers' Stadium!"

Grandpa Li smacked his lips while sucking on his Erguotou (a type of Chinese liquor): "Wow, his dribbling is like he's been rubbed with sesame oil. If those defenders from Guoan were to run into him, they'd be spinning like tops!"

Grandpa Zhang, with a cigarette dangling from his lips, shook his head and said, "19 years old? Who are you kidding! He's got that seasoned skill, like he's been playing football for half his life. If you ask me, if our Guoan could get someone like that, we'd definitely have a chance in next year's AFC Champions League!"

Old Liu, who was selling popsicles nearby, chimed in: "You guys should give up. With our transfer fee, we can't even buy one of their legs!"

"Hey, what time is it? Still looking at this?"

Aunt Wang from next door got up in the middle of the night and saw the backs of these people, shaking her head.

"Don't worry about it!"

Grandpa Li didn't even turn his head, his eyes fixed on the screen, "That little French devil is about to take the stage!"

Grandpa Zhang, with a half-smoked cigarette dangling from his lips, didn't even notice the ash burning his hand: "Yesterday's newspaper said that this kid's ancestors were from Shandong!"

"Really? That's one of our own people!"

"Our own people? Grandma! They're just a bunch of foreign devils! So what if they have black hair and black eyes? Look at their smugness, they're just like those foreign-worshipping brats at the end of our alley!"

"From Shandong?! That's even worse! When he gets old and comes to play football in China, he'll definitely join Luneng! He'll be in cahoots with those Shandong bastards!"

In the summer of 2004, a wave of enthusiasm swept through Chinese football fans' television sets.

Although this young man has already made a name for himself in European football and even helped his team win three championship trophies, including the Champions League, most fans only know his name but have never seen him because Ligue 1 and Champions League matches are not broadcast in China.

The arrival of the European Championship changed everything.

This was the first time Chinese fans had truly witnessed this prodigy's performance on television. His astonishing stats of 6 goals and 4 assists across four matches left every fan who stayed up late to watch wide-eyed.

His performance of 2 goals and 1 assist in the first half of the semi-final caused the sports channel's ratings to soar.

What's even more fascinating is that this young man, who dominates the court, actually has Chinese ancestry.

Although he was born in France, news of his ancestral home in Shandong spread quickly.

Viewers watching on television noticed that this mixed-race boy had the delicate features typical of East Asians, yet also possessed the deep-set features of Westerners. His slightly drooping eyes when he smiled made him appear particularly endearing.

At the barbecue stalls on the streets, fans ate skewers while discussing animatedly: "This young man looks really good, and he's also such a great football player!"

"I heard my great-grandfather was from Shandong? That makes him practically a fellow Shandong native!"

Such conversations are repeated among fan groups across the country.

Sales of sports magazines suddenly skyrocketed; any magazine featuring his photo would quickly sell out.

Boys on campus began to imitate his hairstyle and celebration moves, while girls pasted his posters on the inside of their desks.

On the left is the radiant smile of the three S.H.E sisters, and on the right is Jay Chou's cool album cover.

Roy's sticker was perfectly positioned in the middle, and his flowing black hair and smiling eyes as he celebrated his goal made him stand out among the other stars.

Even middle-aged people who don't usually watch football will ask during their leisure time, "Did that mixed-race kid score again today?"

Overnight, this football prodigy with Chinese heritage became the focus of nationwide discussion.

Every time he touches the ball, it elicits gasps from viewers on television; every goal he scores becomes the talk of the town the next day.

This summer, he left an indelible mark on the hearts of Chinese fans with his performance.

53rd minute of the second half.

Huang Jianxiang's commentary instantly ignited passion:
"Portugal is still attacking! They haven't given up! The game has been going on for over fifty minutes, and they're behind, but the host team's players like Figo, Deco, and Maniche are still fighting!"

Deco received a pass back from Figo in midfield, glanced up, and chipped a long diagonal pass with his right foot.

The ball arced straight towards the right side of the French penalty area!
"Deco gets the ball! Look up and observe! He curls a right-footed shot! What a brilliant pass! It's aimed right at that little Cristiano Ronaldo wearing number 17!"

Cristiano Ronaldo launched himself instantly! He left Gallas half a body length behind and calmly controlled the ball at the edge of the penalty area.

Thuram lunged to block, and Ronaldo made a move with his left foot, but suddenly flicked the ball gently with the inside of his foot, causing it to bounce obediently to the right!
"Look at this little Ronaldo! He's off! Gallas is chasing him desperately! Wow! Look at that explosiveness! What does 'Ronaldo' mean? This name was born for the football field! From Ronaldo the Elder to Ronaldinho, and now to this little Ronaldo—everyone named 'Ronaldo' is a lethal weapon on the field!"

Abidal panicked. His center of gravity had already shifted to the left, and he could only watch helplessly as Ronaldo adjusted his position and swung his right foot.

"boom!"

A powerful shot flew straight into the top right corner of the goal! Barthez leaped into the air, barely managing to touch the ball with his fingertips, but the ball was too fast and slammed against the underside of the crossbar before bouncing into the net!

"Dribble past! Feint! Shot!!! Goal!!! Cristiano Ronaldo!!! This young man, not yet 20 years old, breached the French goal in the most 'Ronaldo' way! This is the legacy, my friends! As Figo and his ilk gradually age, Cristiano Ronaldo is telling the world: Portugal's golden blood will forever boil!"

This shot, from controlling the ball to the feint to the powerful shot, was executed flawlessly!
The French players stood frozen in place.

Gallas shrugged and complained that his teammates didn't cover, while Thuram kicked the goalpost hard.

On the sidelines, Santini's face was ashen, while Scolari's punches seemed to shatter the sky.

The commentator yelled at the top of his lungs, "Cristiano Ronaldo!!! That shot was crisper than a bullet!"

The Estádio da Luz erupted! The shouts of the Portuguese fans almost lifted the roof off.

Cristiano Ronaldo sprinted toward the corner flag, sliding down his knees and carving three deep tracks in the grass!

He ripped off his jersey and flung it into the air, revealing his lean muscles, and roared like a wild beast at the stands.

The referee showed a yellow card without hesitation, but Ronaldo didn't care at all!

He turned to face the French team's bench, his eyes bloodshot and veins bulging on his neck, as if he wanted to roar out all his resentment.

He was outstanding today: that powerful shot he just scored was a work of art; he fought so hard that he cramped up but never gave up on any sprint, and even tracked back into the penalty area several times.
But I just can't beat that damn Roy!
Henry and Zidane? He responded with a goal! Figo? He proved it with a breakthrough!
What makes that 19-year-old mixed-race kid so amazing?

The moment the ball reached his feet, the entire stadium held its breath.

He can either change direction to get past the defender, play a through ball to break through the defense, or simply unleash a world-class goal himself.

In five games, he was directly involved in 13 goals. The opponents couldn't defend against him, his teammates were reliable, and even the opposing fans couldn't help but stand up and applaud him.

Modern football is faster, more physical, and more efficient, and this kid is the perfect product of this new era.

His technique is as refined as a South American player, his running is as relentless as a European player, and his mental fortitude is as stable as a veteran.

Cristiano Ronaldo is actually also transitioning in this direction, but the more he trains, the more he realizes that he seems to be chasing Roy's shadow.

Just when I thought I was getting close, I looked up and found that Roy had run even further away.

What frustrated him most was that in order to learn this style of play, he lost all his original signature characteristics. What he couldn't stand the most was that even Ferguson patted him on the shoulder and said, "Not bad, you're starting to play more and more like Roy now."

These words were like knives, stabbing him as if to say: No matter how hard you try, you're just an imitator.

The only way is to defeat Roy head-on.
Cristiano Ronaldo gritted his teeth, staring intently at the center circle.

Roy stood there, clapped lightly at him, a smile on his face, and gave him a thumbs up.

That smile contained no sarcasm, yet it was more infuriating than any mockery.

"Cristiano, you played well."

It was as if they were praising his progress.

"But you still have a long way to go."

It was as if it was reminding him not to have unrealistic fantasies.

What infuriated him most was that vague "big brother" attitude, as if he would always be Roy's little brother, and no matter how hard he tried, he could never escape his grasp.

Damn it, who wants to be your brother?
He spat out the bits of grass from his mouth and turned to walk back to his seat.

France kicked off from the center circle. Roy gently passed the ball to Henry, while he himself moved slowly to the right.

Henry passed back to Zidane, and the French team began to patiently pass the ball around in their own half.

Thuram and Abidal are like two precise conveyor belts, calmly maneuvering left and right under the pressure of the Portuguese striker.

Makelele always stood in front of the defense as a pivot, and every time he received the ball, it was as if he had already calculated the next route.

When the ball reached midfield, Roy suddenly dropped back to the defensive midfield position to receive the ball.

He received the ball with a relaxed posture, even having the leisure to lightly bounce it with his toes before slowly passing it to Vieira when Costinha rushed over.

This action infuriated Portuguese midfielder Maniche, who stomped his feet in anger.

The player was right in front of him, but he just couldn't get the ball.

Roy is like a restless ghost on the field, always appearing in the most dangerous positions at the most opportune moments.

When the French team passes the ball around in their own half, he will suddenly drop back to midfield and use his body to block the position and receive the ball securely.

As soon as the Portuguese midfielder pounced on him, he deftly flicked and cut inside, either spinning around to shake off the defender or directly passing the ball to a nearby teammate.

When Zidane has the ball, Roy's runs are even more cunning.

He first pretended to move to the wing, and after the defender followed, he suddenly turned back and ran back to the middle to ask for the ball.

Sometimes, after receiving the ball, he doesn't rush forward at all; he just stands still to protect the ball and waits for Zidane to make a run before passing it to him.

What troubles the Portuguese most is that Roy always manages to handle the ball in the least effortful way.

While others chased after him breathlessly, he strolled around as if taking a walk, juggling the ball a couple of times, observing the situation, and then delivering a perfectly timed pass.

Vieira and Makelele loved to pass the ball to him because as soon as the ball reached his feet, the French team's attacking rhythm would immediately become clear.

Just as the Portuguese players were starting to relax, Roy suddenly made a forward run.

Zidane understood perfectly and delivered a low through ball. Roy, while running, stopped and dribbled past Andrade, then passed the ball across to the penalty spot before Carvalho could cover.

Giuly followed up with a shot, but the ball grazed the post and went out of bounds! A gasp rippled through the stands.

Cristiano Ronaldo's anxiety was palpable.

At the other end, he kicked the grass hard.

He was about to ask his teammates for the ball when he saw Deco choose to pass it to Figo, who was in a better position.

French veteran Lizarazu immediately clung to Figo and ended the attack with a clean tackle.

The broadcast cameras captured Ronaldo shrugging and then pulling his hand back, while Roy in the distance was smiling and high-fiving Henry.

As the game progressed, the Portuguese players began to run more heavily.

Figo's breakthroughs were no longer sharp, and Deco's passes also went awry.

In contrast, the French team still boasts Zidane, 32, who can still use the elegant Marseille turn to get rid of defenders, while Roy moves freely between the two ends of the pitch.

The handover of the reins between Zidane and Roy took place in silence.

France's attack no longer relies entirely on Zidane's magical ankle.

When veterans choose to retreat to conserve their energy, Roy will immediately step up to become the team's playmaker.

He received a pass from Makelele, calmly turned around under the pressure of Costinha and Maniche, and found Lizarazu who suddenly made a forward run with a diagonal pass with the outside of his foot.

The 19-year-old's skillful ball handling impressed even Santini on the sidelines, who couldn't help but nod in approval.

Zidane began to voluntarily relinquish some possession of the ball.

When Roy drops back to receive the ball, he will make a tacit forward run to draw away the defender.

When Zidane has the ball, Roy immediately transforms into the most diligent support player.

On one occasion, the two even completed seven consecutive one-touch passes, leaving the Portuguese midfielder completely bewildered.

The French coaching staff is consciously practicing a new tactic: Roy often switches positions with Henry to attack the penalty area, at which point Zidane will take a back seat to direct the attack.

This dynamic balance left the Portuguese defense bewildered.

Just as Carvalho got used to marking Roy's dropping back to organize the attack, he found the next second that Roy had already cut behind him to receive the cross.

67 minutes.

Vieira intercepted Deco's pass with his foot and immediately passed it to Makelele.

Makelele looked up and made a diagonal pass with his right foot to Roy, who had retreated to the center circle.

Roy had his back to the Portuguese goal, and Costinha closed in from behind.

As the ball approached his feet, Roy gently tapped it with his left foot, and the ball slipped between his legs.

Henry arrived just in time and charged forward in one go.

Carvalho moved to the side to block. Henry flicked the ball to the right with his right foot, and Carvalho shifted his weight accordingly.

Henry quickly cut the ball back with his left foot, slipping between Carvalho and the covering Maniche.

Andrade rushed over to cover for him.

Henry didn't make any further breakthroughs, but instead used the instep of his right foot to push a ground ball to Zidane in the middle.

Zidane met the incoming ball with a flick of his left instep.

The ball arced over Miguel's head as he chased back, then fell towards the left side of the penalty area.

Roy suddenly accelerated, overtaking Carvalho from the outside and rushing into the penalty area.

As the ball fell, he straightened his chest and caught it.

As the ball bounced off the ground, Andrade had already stretched out his leg to block it.

After Roy touched the ball, he firmly planted his left foot on the ground, swung his right leg back, and quickly pushed forward, striking the lower middle part of the ball with the instep.

His eyes were fixed on the goal, his body slightly leaning forward, maintaining the posture after the shot.

The ball whistled out, hit the edge of the penalty area, bounced off the ground, and suddenly changed direction.

The defenders inside the penalty area hurriedly stretched out their legs to block the ball, but it whizzed past their legs.

Goalkeeper Ricardo quickly dived to make a save, stretching his arm as far as he could, but the ball still grazed his fingertips and slipped into the net.

The whole process was clean and efficient; from controlling the ball to scoring, it took less than two seconds.

“BUUUUUUUUT!!!”

"4-2! 4-2! Roy! It's Roy again! Hat-trick! Three goals and one assist! This is Roy's night! France has secured the victory!"

"What a perfect combination! From Vieira's interception, Makelele's pass, Roy's lapse in play, Henry's breakthrough, Zidane's brilliant pass, and finally Roy's decisive strike! A textbook team goal!"

"Portugal's defense has been completely breached! Ricardo is powerless! France is just one step away from victory!"

"This is the art of football! This is the glory of a champion! France's golden generation is writing a new legend! Roy! Tonight he is France's hero!"

Cristiano Ronaldo stood inside the center circle, sweat trickling down his brow bone.

He stared at the jubilant blue figures in the distance, his pupils burning with a flame of resentment.

The substitution board suddenly lit up on the sidelines.

Cristiano Ronaldo turned his head and saw that it was his number.

He stood there for two seconds, seemingly unable to believe that the coach was going to substitute him.

In the end, he could only lower his head and slowly walk towards the sidelines.

As Ronaldo passed the coaching bench, Scolari reached out to pat him, but Ronaldo didn't look up and went straight to the bench to sit down.

He grabbed a towel, pulled it over his head, and buried his face in it.

His heavy breathing echoed under the fabric, and he could hear the shouts from the stadium, with waves of cheers from the French fans surging in.

In the 88th minute, Portugal's final attack was thwarted by substitute Pedroti.

The sound of Vieira clearing the ball with a long kick was particularly loud in the empty stadium.

The fourth official held up an electronic sign indicating three minutes of added time, and French fans had already begun singing "La Marseillaise."

In the second minute of stoppage time, Zidane calmly controlled the ball in midfield, while the referee frequently looked down at his watch.

Zidane suddenly kicked out, delivering a precise 40-meter long pass that went straight behind the Portuguese defense.

Roy broke the offside trap like an arrow and controlled the ball steadily on the edge of the penalty area.

Ricardo left his goal, and Roy calmly slotted the ball into the far corner.

The ball grazed the post and went out of bounds, causing the Portuguese fans to collectively gasp.

The French substitutes on the sidelines had already stood up to celebrate, but then sat back down with regret.

As a long whistle pierced the night sky, all the French substitutes rushed onto the field.

Huang Jianxiang's voice rang out on CCTV5:

"Final whistle blows! France defeats Portugal 4-2! The host nation's European Championship journey comes to an abrupt end at this moment."

"Tonight at the Estádio da Luz, we witnessed the brilliance of genius and the shattering of dreams. Figo's breakthroughs were no longer sharp, and Cristiano Ronaldo's passing and shooting couldn't save the day. Scolari's tactics ultimately couldn't stop the French's iron hooves. But please remember this Portuguese team—they once made all of Europe take notice. The young Cristiano Ronaldo, the stubborn Figo, and the agile Deco ignited this summer with their gorgeous football."

"And the French keep going! Roy, the 19-year-old prodigy, sent the French team to the final with three goals and an assist! Zidane, Thuram, Lizarazu—the veterans' final dance continues! They will wait under the Lisbon night sky for the winner between the Czech Republic and Greece."

"That's football—some cheer, some leave. But don't forget the thunderous applause from the stands when the Portuguese left. This is not the end, but the beginning of the next legend."

(The European Championship was the name used in 2004, a hot topic of the year.)

Cristiano Ronaldo suddenly ripped off the towel and saw Roy being tossed high into the air by his teammates.

Photographers on the sidelines frantically pressed their shutters, the flashes illuminating the smiling faces of the French players.

Portuguese players sat sprawled on the grass in twos and threes, while Figo shook hands with the refereeing team.

The scoreboard is set at 4-2.

He clearly helped Portugal score twice today with a goal and an assist, and he clearly tore apart the opponent's defense countless times.

But now, the coldness of the bench and the darkness under the towel reminded him: that number 11 in the blue jersey had etched an even deeper mark on history with three goals.

Twenty-two minutes before the final whistle, his battle ended prematurely.

Cristiano Ronaldo recalled the moment they exchanged glances across the field during pre-match warm-ups, a moment he thought would be the night he would prove himself.

Tomorrow's headlines will definitely feature Roy, while his goal will only be mentioned in passing.

Cristiano Ronaldo stood up and strode towards the players' tunnel.

He stiffened his neck, his chin clenched, and his eyes were fixed on the exit ahead.

The cheers of the French fans pounded against his back like waves.

As I reached the entrance, a drop of sweat suddenly slid down my hair and landed on my eyelashes.

He blinked sharply, feeling his vision suddenly blur.

Cristiano Ronaldo raised the back of his hand and rubbed his eyes hard, only to touch warm liquid.

He quickened his pace, almost jogging as he rushed into the locker room.

He finally stopped at the corner of the deserted corridor.

Leaning against the cold wall, Cristiano Ronaldo sniffed hard and wiped his face again.

This time he saw it clearly—the back of his hand was definitely wet with tears.

He stared at the teardrop for two seconds, then suddenly slammed his fist against the wall with a dull thud.

Now, the Frenchman is surrounded by reporters, with microphones standing in front of him like a forest.

Cristiano Ronaldo slammed the towel into the laundry basket, the metal basket making a loud clanging sound.

He stood in the shower, the hot water washing away his fatigue.

At that moment, he suddenly understood: from now on, in every match, people would compare him to Roy. He needed to double his training, score more goals, and win championship after championship.

Until one day, all the cameras will be pointed at him, and all the headlines will feature his name.

When he pushed open the bathroom door, he was met with his dejected teammates.

Some people quietly packed up their sneakers, while others stared blankly at the floor.

Figo stood at the door, clutching Zidane's wet French number 10 jersey.

“Cristiano,” Figo’s voice was a little hoarse, “Roy is waiting for you in the players’ tunnel. He wants to exchange jerseys.”

Through the crack in the door, he saw Roy leaning against the wall of the corridor, a polite smile on his face, his blue French team jersey casually draped over his shoulder.

Figo gently nudged his back: "Go ahead, it's basic courtesy."

Cristiano Ronaldo took a deep breath and slowly pushed open the door.

He picked up his red number 17 jersey, the fabric of which was already soaked with sweat.

The two met in the middle of the tunnel, and Roy extended his hand: "Not bad."

Cristiano Ronaldo forced a smile and mechanically completed the exchange.

Roy's jersey was clutched in his hand, feeling like a red-hot iron searing his palm.

This blue battle robe, still warm from the other's body, has now become the most glaring act of charity from the victor to the vanquished.

He wanted to stuff the jersey into the very bottom of his suitcase, as if burying a shameful memory he couldn't bear to recall.

But deep down he knew that the frustration of this night would be etched into his memory as deeply as the number on that jersey.

The team bus engine was already running, and he strode onto the bus in three quick steps, leaving the polite greetings of exchanging jerseys and Roy's friendly smile outside the door.

(End of this chapter)