When playing football, you should call it GOAT.

Chapter 199 Someone should have etched stars for London long ago.
On the morning of August 4, 2004, Pintus carefully gripped the steering wheel of a right-hand drive silver Volvo S40.

He had just bought this used car from a used car dealership in South London yesterday, and there was still an Italian instruction manual on the dashboard.

As an Italian who had just adapted to the British left-hand driving rule, he couldn't help but touch the non-existent gearshift lever on the left side when waiting at a red light, and he often confused the windshield wipers with the turn signals.

After the end of last season, he signed a private training agreement with Roy.

Roy will pay him an annual salary of 40 euros, far exceeding the market price of 15 to 30 euros for a physical trainer in the top league at the time.

This high salary is not only because Pintus has a Champions League title, but also because Roy wants to keep him in his team long-term.

To make it easier for Pintus to observe and adjust his condition, Roy even went through Mendes to secure him a position as a "first-team fitness consultant" at Chelsea.

This title was the result of negotiations between Mendes and the club, and he also secured a privilege that allowed Pintus to be completely detached from the team 48 hours before Roy's match, allowing him to focus on adjusting the striker's physical condition.

Special clause: He must focus 70% of his time on Roy's personal training, including morning training, post-match recovery, and off-season planning.

For the remaining 30% of his time, he will still be involved in Chelsea's daily work as the "first team fitness consultant".

Abramovich had wanted to keep Pintus at Chelsea with a €50 annual salary, but the Italian coach ultimately opted for the current model.

Roy's deal not only offers a generous package, but also allows him to design training programs for other teams' star players in the future.

This allows them to maintain connections with wealthy families while also building their own professional brand.

As Pintus parked his car and headed toward the training ground, his briefcase contained both his Chelsea employee ID and Roy's personal training schedule.

The entire Harrington training ground was quiet; the other players were still enjoying the two-day holiday given to them by Mourinho, with only the automatic sprinkler system humming.

He had just changed into his training clothes when he heard the sound of tires rolling over gravel coming from the parking lot.

A black Range Rover came to a smooth stop. Roy opened the car door, his face behind his sunglasses revealing neither fatigue nor alertness.

Pintus jogged up to meet him, already clutching the heart rate monitor and today's workload assessment form in his hand.

How long did you sleep on the plane last night?

The Italian asked in French, glancing at his watch; it was 7:15, forty-five minutes earlier than the agreed time.

Roy stretched his shoulders and smiled, "Not bad. What's the training schedule for today?"

"Resume training."

The Italian pulled a handwritten form from his briefcase. “Let’s start with the easy stuff: regular physical training, foam rolling to relax your thigh muscles, a 10-minute cold water bath, and then three sets of core exercises. I received a report from the team doctor that your left abdominal muscles were noticeably tighter than your right after that friendly match in the US.”

He pointed to the table and added, "We just finished our vacation and friendly matches, so we can't go straight to high intensity. We'll adjust for a week first, and then gradually increase the intensity once our bodies have adapted. The Premier League won't give you an adjustment period."

Roy jumped up and down a few times: "Really? But I think I'm great, I can run 10,000 meters now."

"The first phase of regular training starts with a warm-up. Jog for 15 minutes, keeping your heart rate below 120. Then do dynamic stretching, focusing on activating the hip joints and hamstrings. Go for it, my Michael Jordan!"

"Yes, sir!"

Roy grinned and turned to run towards the track.

No one noticed that Mourinho was standing with his arms crossed in the shadows on the sidelines.

He should have been resting at home, but the images of last year's Champions League final defeat kept flashing through his mind late at night, keeping him tossing and turning all night.

So before dawn, he drove to Harrington.

At that moment, he looked at the figure training alone on the track, his eyebrows slightly raised.

Roy's every arm swing and every breath was as precise as a machine. This was not a spur-of-the-moment extra training, but the result of long-term self-discipline.

No one's success comes without effort.

On August 4, 2004, at noon, Maicon's flight arrived in London from Brazil.

Having just won the Copa America, he carried his gold medal in his luggage as he walked off the plane with his agent.

This is Maicon's second time in London. Just a few months ago, he helped Monaco defeat Arsenal at Highbury, making history by reaching the Champions League final.

At the airport exit, staff sent by Chelsea Football Club were already waiting.

They took the luggage, exchanged brief greetings, and then led Maicon to the parking lot.

With Maicon's arrival, Chelsea's right flank has found its answer.

He had just stepped out of the airport when his phone rang.

It was a text message from Roy:

"Welcome back, brother."

He smiled and put his phone back in his pocket.

It's great to be on the same team as Roy again.

He knew from his time playing for Monaco that all he had to do was pass the ball to Roy, and he wouldn't have to worry about anything else.

Roy always manages to get the ball into the goal.

Now that they're together again, how far away can the championship be?
That feeling of peace of mind is back.

Ferguson stood in the center of the locker room, hands behind his back, his gaze slowly sweeping over each player, before speaking in a deep voice:
“Listen, lads. The newspapers outside are all talking about our failure last season, how we were eliminated by Porto, and whether Manchester United has passed its peak. But today, I want to tell you one thing: the history of this club has never been given to us by others.”

"The Premier League title? Of course it matters. But listen, lads. At Manchester United, the Champions League is the true measure of greatness!"

"Look at Real Madrid, look at Milan, their trophy rooms are full of Champions League trophies. And us? Twice! Just fucking twice!"

"We have indeed played quite well over the years, often reaching the quarterfinals and semifinals. But performing well and winning the trophy are two different things!"

"With the talents in our dressing room, with the Manchester United brand, two Champions League titles? Far from enough!"

Silence fell over the locker room.

Van Nistelrooy, Keane, Scholes, Cristiano Ronaldo, Ronaldinho, and the newcomer Alan Smith—none of them spoke.

They've already lost two warm-up matches, first against Celtic and then against Milan.

Although they won the Vodafone Cup against PSV Eindhoven, the team's form is still worrying.

What's more troublesome is that they're about to play Arsenal in the Community Shield, and in the first round of the Premier League they'll face Chelsea, plus the added pressure of the Champions League qualifiers.

The start of this season has indeed been tough.

Manchester United have not been able to reach the top of Europe since winning the Champions League in 1999.

Last season, they were eliminated in the first round of the knockout stage by runners-up Porto.

Their glorious record of reaching the quarterfinals for eight consecutive years has now come to an end.

The first qualifying match of the new season's Champions League is crucial, not only for the millions of euros in knockout stage revenue, but also for whether Manchester United can stand shoulder to shoulder with European giants such as Real Madrid and AC Milan.

Ferguson knew that only by proving themselves again on the European stage could Manchester United truly return to the ranks of the top clubs.

But whenever he stands in front of the tactics board, he always thinks of that figure who should have become a new legend at Old Trafford.

That European top scorer who dominated Monaco, that genius he believed could perfectly inherit the mantle of Manchester United's number seven.

Everyone says Roy is a striker born for Manchester United, and even Cantona publicly praised him: "He is none of us, but he can definitely be the next one, or even the best one."

Ultimately, the boy whom Ferguson saw as the key to the team's revival ended up wearing Chelsea's blue jersey.

Manchester United's number seven jersey has never been just a number.

From Best to Cantona, and then to Beckham, this red shirt represents privilege, but also responsibility.

It has to be the player who can break through the defense the most, the ace who steps up to solve problems at crucial moments, and the focus that the media loves to focus on.

After Beckham left last season, Ferguson gave the number seven to Solskjaer, but everyone knows that although the hardworking Norwegian has made great contributions, he is ultimately not the one who can carry the legendary number.

Ferguson's gaze swept across the locker room, lingering on Ronaldinho for a moment.

Ronaldinho was grinning, revealing a row of dazzling white teeth.

His fluffy curly hair stood up in a messy, untidy manner, as if he had just woken up and hadn't taken care of it, giving off a carefree and happy vibe.

Although Ronaldinho had some flashes of brilliance in the Premier League last season, he never quite adapted to the pace of English football.

Those amazing magic tricks from his time at Paris Saint-Germain became less effective in the rainy and physical battles of the Premier League.

Nevertheless, he remains Manchester United's most creative player.

As long as he's on the pitch, Manchester United's attacking organization still depends on him; those brilliant passes and dribbles are something no one else can replicate.

But that's where the problem lies.

The endless parties, late training sessions, and the occasional scandals that broke out off the field caused Ferguson to slam his fist on the table many times.

What's more troublesome is that Ronaldinho has never been captain material.

He always had a smile on his face when he played football, like a child who never grew up. He would dance to celebrate when he won, but you rarely saw him actually feel frustrated when he lost.

A genius magician is ultimately not a general who can command respect in the locker room.

Ronaldinho didn't care about any of this.

He only had two things on his mind: playing football and having fun.

How much money is in his salary account? How is the revenue split for commercial endorsements? He never bothered to think about these questions, since his brother took care of them anyway.

In fact, this genius doesn't even know how to use an ATM.

Years later, when he was playing in the South American league, he made the absurd mistake of asking the club for an advance of $5000 in cash because his agent brother hadn't had time to prepare some pocket money for him.

This summer, his brother is busy negotiating with Manchester United: using Barcelona and Serie A teams as bargaining chips, he not only wants to ensure his brother gets the legendary number seven jersey, but also demands a significant increase in the share of commercial contracts and image rights.

All of this was because Roy set a bad precedent: Chelsea offered 100% image rights in order to sign him, which was unprecedented.

Now, the Premier League's big-name stars are all eager to renegotiate their contract terms.

While his agent was slamming his fist on the table in the conference room, Ronaldinho himself was probably lying on the beach, one arm around a hot model, the other holding an ice-cold coconut juice, laughing without a care in the world.

Ferguson's gaze finally settled on the Portuguese boy.

The 19-year-old curly-haired boy was scratching his nose with his head down, as thin as a bamboo pole.

“Cristiano,” he suddenly spoke, his voice softer than usual, “does your knee still hurt?”

The boy suddenly looked up, his curly hair swaying gently with the movement.

He quickly shook his head: "It doesn't hurt anymore, sir. I'm ready."

The locker room suddenly fell silent.

Everyone knows what this simple question and answer means.

Ferguson glanced at Ronaldinho, who was humming a song, and sighed softly.

Perhaps it's time to take a gamble.

At 5 p.m. on August 6, 2004, the sunset over Stamford Bridge painted the townhouses of West London red.

West London is one of the wealthiest areas in London, as it is home to the British royal palaces, the Prime Minister's residence, Parliament, and various government departments, and is home to a large number of wealthy and high-income individuals.

Bank manager Richard loosened his tie and glanced at his watch: "It's five o'clock, time to go."

His wife, Emma, ​​was pinning a Chelsea FC crest brooch onto their daughter's tutu: "Honey, Uncle Roy's welcome party is about to begin."

Five-year-old Sofia hugged her newly bought teddy bear, which was wearing a mini blue jersey, a limited edition from the Harrods department store yesterday.

When they pushed open the garden gate, Mr. Harrington next door was trimming roses.

"The whole family came?"

He leaned against the fence and laughed, his gloves still covered in mud.

"Roy's debut is not to be missed."

Richard waved his pass: "Did you watch the US warm-up game last week? Five goals and two assists in three halves, that guy was like a cold-blooded killer, every time he broke into the penalty area he had a deadly elegance."

Mr. Harrington snapped the scissors shut: “My grandson said his shot was so fast that even the camera couldn’t keep up.”

"Yes."

Richard lifted his daughter onto his shoulder: "This season, the opposing teams at Stamford Bridge will see what a one-hit kill looks like."

Mr. Harrington scoffed, "So it's not so bad that the team was sold to the Russians."

He glanced at the flashing lights in the direction of Stamford Bridge. "Back in Bates' old miser days, he wouldn't have been willing to spend £2720 million to buy such a super killer."

West London gradually comes alive in the evening.

On the streets around Stamford Bridge, small groups of fans walked toward the stadium, their blue jerseys standing out against the setting sun.

Some people carried beer, chatting and laughing with their companions as they walked; others jogged a few steps, afraid of missing the start of the event.

Cars lined up along the roadside, their horns blaring incessantly.

A head wearing a Chelsea scarf peeked out of the car window, impatiently peering at the traffic ahead.

A large number of fans poured out of the subway station exit, squeezed through the turnstiles, and quickly merged into the crowd, heading towards the stadium.

The nearby bars were already packed with people. The owners had turned the TV volume up to the maximum and set up temporary stalls outside, selling beer and hot dogs.

The drinkers held up their glasses, staring at the screen, waiting for the live stream to begin.

A large crowd had already gathered in front of the big screen outside the stadium.

Some people brought folding chairs and reserved their spots early, while others simply sat on the ground, taking out snacks and drinks.

The air was filled with the aroma of fish and chips, and faint cheers could be heard coming from inside the stadium.

The car carrying Roy slowly drove into Stanford Bridge, with fans waving scarves crowding the windows.

The BBC cameras had been following him since last night, never leaving his face. When Roy turned to look out the window, a reporter shoved the microphone close: "Hey, Roy, say something to the camera right now, anything will do."

Roy turned to look out of the car, the setting sun casting its light on his sharply defined profile.

He looked at the fans chanting his name and gave a gentle smile: "I've seen the madness at Stamford Bridge, and this is my home now."

At 7 p.m., the exterior walls of Stamford Bridge were illuminated with blue and white lights.

Four tall lighting towers have been turned on, illuminating the entire building.

The 40,000 seats were almost full, with a large crowd of people. The plastic seats creaked and groaned, and people kept standing up and sitting down, craning their necks to look into the aisle.

Several young people shoved each other, vying for a better view, their laughter mingling with the noise of the crowd.

The big screen lit up, and Roy's goal highlights began to play.

Monaco's Champions League journey flashed by, with one crucial goal after another appearing from the group stage to the knockout stage.

"That was a beautiful goal! Roy scored two goals in the second half, completing a hat-trick! Deportivo La Coruña's goal is groaning!"

"Roy! Roy! Roy! Kovac can't stop him! Shot! Kahn! Goal!!"

"That was a beautiful goal! A first-time lead at the Bernabéu! The White Army is silent! Real Madrid are down 0-1!!!"

"They can't stop him! They simply can't stop him! Even Campbell and Lauren combined can't stop him!"

"Roy! One-on-one with Baía! Through his legs! Goal!!! The Porto goalkeeper has been mercilessly pierced between his legs!!!"

"King of Europe! Roy—!!!"

The scene rapidly switches between different stadiums and different opponents, but the only constant is his jersey fluttering in the wind during his celebration.

Several moments during the match against Arsenal elicited the loudest cheers from the stands.

The final image is of him raising the trophy high on the night of the Champions League final.

The European Championship journey is just around the corner.

From the group stage to the final, goals were scored one after another against strong opponents.

The final image lingers on the podium, showing him draped in the national flag and kissing the trophy.

The applause from the stands grew louder and louder, gradually becoming a continuous roar.

At that moment, Abramovich's deep voice came from the stadium's sound system:
"When I bought this club, I promised you that Chelsea would become a force to be reckoned with in European football. We would take our own path, step by step, to stand among the elite. And today, I bring you the best players in Europe."

As soon as Abu finished speaking, all the lights in the stadium suddenly went out.

The cheers of 40,000 people erupted in the darkness, so loud it hurt people's eardrums.

Roy stood in the tunnel waiting to go on stage, while the shouts outside sounded like thunder.

The reporter handed me the microphone: "Are you nervous?"

"No, it shouldn't be like that."

Roy smiled, then tapped his chest with his finger. "But my heart does beat very fast."

The stadium DJ's screams suddenly tore through the air:
"STAMFORD BRIDGE —"

"Please shout with the wildest passion—"

"Welcome us—!!! Europe's sharpest—!!! Blue Blade—!!!"

"Ro-Yi!!!!!"

The security guard at the entrance tightened his walkie-talkie and took a half step back.

Suddenly, the reporters in the commentary booth all put on their headphones at the same time, and the noise from the stands subsided in unison.

A murmur suddenly broke out in the stands, but quickly fell silent again.

All eyes turned to the same place.

Under the blinding spotlight, Roy's shadow was stretched long.

He stood at the entrance of the passage, his nineteen-year-old face still carrying a hint of childishness, but his eyes were already as sharp as those of a veteran.

Roy raised his hand to shield his eyes from the glaring light.

Before me stretched a blurry blue wave, with forty thousand dark figures dancing in the dimly lit stands, their waving arms like wheat fields ruffled by the wind.

Suddenly, more than a dozen blue fireworks exploded in the opposite stands, and behind the smoke, countless fans were frantically waving their scarves.

Roy took a deep breath and stepped onto the grass.

As he walked, he waved to the stands on both sides, each wave of his hand triggering a new wave of cheers.

For the last three steps, he deliberately slowed down.

Abramovich had already extended his hand, waiting, while Mourinho stood beside him with his arms crossed.

Kenyon was busy flattening out a jersey with the number 10 printed on it.

Abramovich took the blue number 10 jersey from Kenyon, his hands trembling as the number shone brightly under the lights.

Roy extended two fingers, gently pinched the collar to take it, and turned to face the stands.

The roar from the north stand was like a muffled thunderclap, instantly tearing through the air.

Dozens of people in the front row suddenly jumped up from their seats, and then the second row, the third row, and finally the entire stands turned into a boiling blue volcano.

Roy stood under the spotlight, the microphone casting a long, thin shadow in front of him.

Abu stood two steps away, his hands in his trouser pockets.

A slight smile played on his lips as his gaze swept over the churning blue sea of ​​people below the stage.

The waving scarves, the raised banners, and the flashing lights all reflected dancing points of light in his eyes.

Roy grabbed the microphone, smiled, and looked up at the stands. A deep roar exploded out:
"Come on Chelsea!"

The North Stand erupted in a tremendous, landslide-like response.

"Come on Chelsea!"

Roy patted his chest, his voice suddenly rising:

"Chelsea! Roy! Together we rise!"

The final three words ignited the entire stadium like a fuse, and 40,000 people roared back in unison: "Together we rise!"

When Roy shouted this slogan, several elderly fans in the front row of the North Stand suddenly widened their eyes.

"Bloody hell"

A fat man with a flushed face dropped his beer glass onto the cement steps with a clatter.

"F**king right we rise!"

The British media, Chelsea legends, and Chelsea management present looked at each other in bewilderment.

Roy ignited the passion of the entire stadium with just one sentence, a stunning scene that left everyone present speechless.

What kind of social media monster did they sign?

Just as everyone was in shock, Roy's calm voice rang out again:

"England is the birthplace of modern football, and London is the beating heart of England. Football flows in every corner of the city. The first football association was founded in a London pub in 1863. Children in working-class areas used streetlights as goalposts. People played football in the ruins after the bombing of World War II. Today, every season there are derbies that make the whole city hold its breath."

"Aye!"

The entire stadium erupted in a deep, powerful response.

"I can say without exaggeration that London is the capital of modern football. It has the most professional clubs in the world. Let's count the names etched in football history: Chelsea, Arsenal, Tottenham, West Ham United, Fulham, Crystal Palace, Queens Park Rangers, Charlton Athletic, Millwall, Leyton Orient, Brentford, Wimbledon, and all those other names that have shone brightly."

As Roy finished speaking, a gentle smile suddenly appeared on his lips, and his voice unconsciously softened, as if afraid of disturbing a child who was listening to the story.

His gaze swept over every face in the stands, his Adam's apple bobbing slightly, softening his previously impassioned tone into a gentle murmur:

"Few places have football so deeply ingrained in people's daily lives as London does."

Several female fans holding Chelsea scarves suddenly clutched their chests, exchanging glances that seemed to say, "How can he be so gentle?"

But Roy's voice suddenly turned cold, and his sharp gaze swept across the entire room:

"So I can't help but ask..."

He paused for a second, then said loudly, "Why has this great football capital—London—never won the Champions League?"

The air on Stamford Bridge seemed to freeze instantly.

The chants of "Aye" from the stands abruptly stopped, and several fans who were holding beer glasses suddenly froze in place.

Abramovich, Kenyon, and even Mourinho all changed color instantly.

The fans in the stands looked at each other in bewilderment. Some scratched their heads in confusion, while a few cursed out loud. This was a sore spot that London football was most reluctant to mention.

Roy, however, remained indifferent.

His voice was like a dull knife, slowly cutting open the wound of Stamford Bridge:
"Why? Why has the heart of English football never brought that damn silver cup home?"

Wenger's brow furrowed suddenly as he watched the television. He took a deep breath, a complex expression forming on his face.

Humiliation, doubt, hesitation.
Even the professor who knew London football best couldn't figure out why Roy said that.

A series of clearly audible shouts erupted from the stands; some Chelsea fans were genuinely angry, but Roy's voice followed immediately:

"Why do we have the most passionate, crazy, and sincere fans in the world?"

He suddenly pointed to the flushed faces in the stands, "yet no team has ever been able to stand on the highest podium in Europe with all these names on their shoulders?"

"And no team has ever represented Highbury, White Hart Lane, Stamford Bridge, Upton Park, Selhurst Park, or Lovetus Road, or even just London as a football city, on the stage of the Champions League final?"

Henry, sitting in front of the TV, suddenly kicked over the coffee table: "What the hell is this bastard trying to do?"

"Why can't we do it? London has the best stadiums, the most passionate fans, and the most generous owners."

Roy suddenly lowered his voice and whispered as if confessing in a church, "We...should have done it a long time ago."

In a corner, an old Chelsea fan suddenly loosened his grip on his scarf, muttering repeatedly like a deflated balloon, "Yeah. We should have done it a long time ago."

Fans of other teams watching the live broadcast on TV were suddenly stunned. After so many years of the Champions League, how come no team from London has ever reached the final?

Mourinho smiled; he knew what Roy was going to do.

"We should have done it a long time ago! Shouldn't we?"

He raised a finger and shook it lightly, turning it to the stands in all directions, like a mad prophet preaching on the banks of the Thames, “Tell me, Londoners?!”

"We should have done it a long time ago! Shouldn't we?"

At first, only a few scattered "Aye"s came from the corner, like raindrops hitting an empty tin bucket.

Then, "Aye" sounds rang out from different seats.

When the veteran fans in the North Stand joined in at the top of their lungs, the sound of the entire Stamford Bridge was like the rising tide overflowing the dam.

"London--"

Roy's voice pierced the night: "We need our first damn Champions League trophy!"

Without further hesitation, a roar erupted from the stands: "AYE!!!"

“Look at the other cities in England! Birmingham has the damn European Cup trophy. Nottingham has the damn European Cup trophy. Liverpool has the damn European Cup trophy. Manchester has the damn European Cup trophy. But what about London? The city with the most professional teams, the city where millions of fans flock to the stadium every weekend, the city that has produced countless legendary stars, still doesn’t have a Champions League trophy of its own.”

"It's time to change all of this. London needs its own European champion."

"AYE!!!"

Amidst the deafening cheers of the fans, all the lights on Stamford Bridge suddenly came on, illuminating the faces of those wiping their eyes.

Their reddened eyes and trembling lips were clearly visible in the camera lens.

Roy stood in front of the microphone, the spotlight shining on his angular face.

His black hair was slightly curly, and his deep black eyes looked like two burning embers in the bright light. His handsome face was tense at this moment.

The sound wasn't loud, but it instantly silenced the entire stadium.

“I believe that this city,” he slowly surveyed the stands, “will forever remember the team that brought glory for the first time, the players who made history, and of course, every fan who witnessed this moment!”

"That's why I came to Chelsea."

He leaned forward slightly, a confident smile playing on his lips, his dark eyes gleaming with an air of certainty.

“I arrived as European champions. But now—”

Roy tapped the team badge on his chest with his finger: "You and I have only one goal: to win London's first Champions League title!"

“We will be the first London team to lift the Champions League trophy, the first, but certainly not the last. No team will be able to do it before us. After us, any London team that wants to reach the top of Europe must first get past us. If another team makes it to the final, we will be waiting for them at the top and then, like the ever-burning light of London, we will fight tirelessly until we bring a complete and undisputed victory to this city!”

"Let those neighbors in red and white jerseys forever remember who first etched the stars into this city!"

At that moment, the entire stadium fell silent, as if the music had ended and the audience had dispersed.

In the silence, Roy's voice was deep and clear: "I am the special one. And so are you all."

The silence was shattered with a deafening roar; the shouts of 40,000 people transformed into a tsunami, sweeping across the entire night sky.

"Chelsea! Roi! Together we rise!!!!!"

(End of this chapter)