When playing football, you should call it GOAT.

Chapter 203 Roy's Deadly Rhythm

2004年8月16日，曼联0-2负于切尔西的第二天。

Evra's agent rushed to the Carrington training ground and had a brief meeting with Ferguson.

Gary Neville's defense against Roy was mediocre, but overall it was decent.

In contrast, left-back Fortune's performance was disastrous, with even Gallas, whose attacking ability is not outstanding, able to break through freely on his side.

Ferguson knew that Manchester United's left flank defense would completely collapse if they faced Chelsea's Robben, Duff, and Maicon, or Arsenal's Ljungberg and Lauren.

However, after more than an hour of negotiations, the two sides failed to reach an agreement on the transfer fee.

The agent eventually left Carrington without bringing back any agreement.

Manchester United's left flank problem remains unresolved.

After signing Heinze, Ferguson had originally considered bringing in Evra to strengthen the left flank.

But after witnessing the defeat, he changed his mind.

Roy's performance made him realize that Manchester United needed game-changing talents, not just positional reinforcements.

“Perhaps we should reconsider Rooney’s transfer,” Ferguson told David Gill. “We can’t afford to miss out on this young man again.”

Evra sat in the living room, his phone screen lit up.

The agent's message was brief: "Chelsea's chances are over, and negotiations with Manchester United have also stalled."

He sighed and tossed his phone onto the sofa.

He originally wanted to go to Chelsea and reunite with Roy on the left wing.

But Mourinho was clearly not interested in him, and Manchester United had been unable to reach an agreement on terms.

The agent mentioned that Barcelona is still looking for a young left-back, but with Van Bronckhorst just joining, the chances are probably slim.

Then the phone vibrated again.

It's a call-up notice from the French national team.

Evra stared at the email for a few seconds, then suddenly thought of something.

He picked up his phone and sent Roy a message: "See you on the national team, I need to talk to you about something."

Evra harbored a lot of resentment towards Roy.

He still couldn't understand why, when they fought side by side in Monaco, they were an invincible left-wing duo.

Roy is currently enjoying great success at Chelsea, yet he won't even bother to offer Mourinho a polite suggestion that "Evra is a good fit for left-back," which has instead made Abidal, that blockhead, a transfer target for the Blues.

"Is this what he calls friendship?"

Evra stared at the French national team's training camp notice and sneered.

He should have realized long ago: in the world of football, a place of fame and fortune, what true brothers are there? It's just a matter of people leaving and everyone going their separate ways.

Roy's reply popped up quickly: "Brother, I mentioned you to José a while ago. But you know how stubborn he is, he insists on finding a left-back who can play center-back."

Evra stared at his phone screen, and Roy's reply suddenly eased the tightness in his chest.

"It can't be entirely his fault."

He muttered something as he tossed his phone onto the sofa, then got up and grabbed a can of beer from the fridge.

As the cold liquor slid down his throat, Evra suddenly laughed and cursed, "Damn it, it's not like I'm begging to go to Chelsea!"

Late at night, Domenech paced back and forth in front of the tactics board in his office.

The question of who should wear the captain's armband in the friendly match against Bosnia and Herzegovina the day after tomorrow has become a more difficult problem than the team's lineup.

Desailly has officially retired, and Vieira is embroiled in a transfer saga to Real Madrid, having not only fallen out with Wenger but also missing recent matches.

To make matters worse, Zidane declined the call-up, citing the need to "adjust his form," and the absence of this spiritual leader left the locker room suddenly without its backbone.

Domenech stubbed out his cigarette and crossed out names one by one in his notebook.

Almost all of the 98 golden generation have retired, and now only three can shoulder the responsibility of captain: Barthez, Pires, and Henry. They are all veterans, but he knows in his heart that Roy may not be convinced.

French media have already hailed Roy as the core of the new generation, and with the retirement of the Class of '98, many of the newly selected national team players are from the Monaco system, or at least from Ligue 1, and all have a good relationship with Roy.

Given Roy's current momentum, causing trouble in the locker room would be a piece of cake.

Domenech had originally considered forcing Zidane to retire, since Zidane himself was hesitant.

But now he suddenly realizes that if Zidane really retires, in a year or two no one in the locker room will be able to keep Roy in check, and even he, the head coach, may not be able to control the situation.

After all, he was appointed after the Football Association compromised and resolved the conflicts between the parties. In terms of seniority and ability, he was no match for those famous French coaches. Platini and his ilk never liked him.

Thinking of this, Domenech put down his pen and rubbed his temples.

He picked up the phone and dialed Zidane's number.

"Zidane, we need to talk."

His tone was much gentler than usual, "The national team needs you now, even if you have to stay for another year."

There was silence on the other end of the phone for a few seconds.

Domenech knew that Zidane had already considered retiring, but now he had to convince him—not for tactical reasons, but for the sake of balance in the locker room.

If Zidane leaves now, the younger generation led by Roy will soon completely seize control of the narrative, and his authority as head coach will likely become meaningless.

"Give me some time to think it over," Zidane finally said.

Domenech hung up the phone and let out a long sigh of relief.

At least, there is still room for maneuver.

He needs to act quickly to solidify his position before Zidane leaves completely, otherwise there really won't be anyone in the locker room who can keep Roy in check.

Domenech picked up the phone again and dialed Barthez's number.

After the call connected, he asked directly, "Fabian, what do you think about the captain's armband?"

Barthes chuckled on the other end of the phone, his voice tinged with a hint of laziness: "Coach, I'm too old for the captaincy. Henry and Pires are both more suitable than me."

Domenech frowned. "What about Roy? What do you think of him?"

Barthez pondered for a moment: "That kid may be young, but he's more mature than many veterans. You saw it at the European Championship; he's already the core of the team."

Domenech sighed: "But he's only 19. Isn't it too early to hand over the captain's armband to him?"

Barthez laughed and said, "Coach, in football, ability speaks for itself. What does age matter? But... the decision is yours."

After hanging up the phone, Domenech rubbed his temples.

It seems the wind in the locker room was blowing more clearly than he had imagined.

Domenech took a deep breath and dialed the third number.

"Roy, how have you been lately? Are you settling into life in England?"

His tone was more attentive than usual, even carrying a hint of deliberate ease.

Roy's crisp voice came from the other end of the phone: "It's alright, coach. It's just that the intensity of the competition is higher than in Ligue 1, but I'm used to it."

Domenech smiled. "Young people adapt quickly. By the way, about this national team training camp..."

He paused, as if considering his words, and asked, "How do you think the team leader should be chosen?"

Roy seemed to pause for a moment, then calmly replied, "Coach, it's your decision. I'll fully support whoever you choose."

Domenech narrowed his eyes. The boy's answer was impeccable, showing neither ambition nor hesitation.

He suddenly realized that Roy was far more mature than his peers.

"well."

Domenech chuckled twice. "See you at the training camp."

August 18, Stade de France
In the 7th minute, Bosnia and Herzegovina maintained possession in the French half, forcing the French 5-3-2 formation to retreat somewhat.

In the stands, the murmurs of the French fans gradually grew louder.

"My first game as coach was with a five-defender formation!"

A middle-aged fan wearing a blue and white scarf frowned and said, "Can't Domenech play a little bolder? This is a friendly match!"

"Does he think he's coaching a relegation-threatened team?"

A young man next to him scoffed, "Henry and Roy are up front, but there are only three players in midfield. They can't even launch a counter-attack."

An elderly fan in the front row shook his head: "Our team was led quite well by Santini, the European Championship winner. Why did the Football Association replace him? Tell me!"

Bosnia and Herzegovina's attack started from their own half and progressed layer by layer.

Salihamidzic played as a right-back in this match, dribbling the ball along the sideline. Under pressure from French left-back Mendy, he passed the ball across to midfielder Bayramovic.

Bayramovic surveyed the attacking third and spotted Baljic making a rapid forward run down the left flank.

He immediately sent a long diagonal pass, the ball crossing midfield and accurately finding left winger Barjic.

When Barjic received the ball, French right-back Evra had already quickly tracked back to defend.

Barjic managed to deliver a cross with his left foot under close marking from Evra.

The cross was high and floated, flying towards the center of the French penalty area.

Bosnian striker Sergei Barbarez and Bolic were both in position to make runs, but French center-back Gallas, with excellent anticipation and jumping ability, leaped high between the two and cleared the cross out of the penalty area with a powerful header.

"Gala! Well done!"

"Look at this prediction, it's world-class!"

The ball flew towards the edge of the midfield arc, where French defensive midfielder Pedretti and Bosnian defensive midfielder Nelmin Shabic both rushed toward the landing point.

With his faster acceleration and excellent anticipation, Pedretti got a half-body-length ahead and controlled the ball with his chest.

Although Shabic tried his best to poke the ball, Pedretti had already firmly controlled possession and turned to launch a counterattack.

In that instant, the French team launched a rapid counter-attack, switching from defense to offense.

After the Bosnian attack was cleared, Pedretti won the ball in midfield and quickly passed it to Mavuba.

Mawuba dribbled forward two steps, looked up and saw Rothen had already started his run, and directly passed the ball diagonally to him.

Rothen successfully beat the offside trap, and as Grealik staggered and turned, his blond hair fluttered in the night wind.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that familiar, ghostly figure had already quietly started moving.

Rothen hadn't even fully turned his head to check before his left outside foot brushed against the ball.

And Roy, just as they had practiced hundreds of times, appeared precisely at the end of the ball's trajectory.

When Rothen made his tackle, Roy was still standing between Papak and Bajic.

Just as the ball rolled out, Roy suddenly started moving.

His explosiveness was astonishing; he passed through the gap between the two center-backs almost simultaneously with the ball.

Before Papak and Bajic could react, Roy had already caught up with the ball in two steps and was now facing the penalty area directly.

Papak desperately chased back, but Roy suddenly changed direction after touching the ball, accelerating sharply and shaking off Papak and Bajic's double-team.

Salihamidzic came to cover from the other side, but Roy had already adjusted his footing and fired a right-footed shot into the far corner.

The ball skimmed along the grass, fast and tricky. Goalkeeper Hasajic dived to make a save, barely managing to touch it with his fingertips, but the ball still rolled into the net.

1-0, France takes the lead.

As Roy ran to the corner flag to celebrate, the French fans in the stands were already singing in unison.

He ran faster than the wind!
"Roi Démon!" (The Demon King)

"Roi Démon!" (The Demon King)

"Personne ne peut l'arrêter!" (No one can stop him!)
Rothen rushed over laughing and slapped him on the back of the neck: "Kid, looks like you didn't waste your time in England!"

Roy grinned, about to reply, when Pedretti put his arm around their shoulders from behind: "Alright, it's only 1-0, let's keep going!"

In the 18th minute of the match, the French team executed a smooth passing move in the attacking third.

In the 18th minute of the match, Roy suddenly accelerated on the left wing, dribbled past Salihamidzic, and cut the ball back from near the byline to the edge of the penalty area.

Mavuba arrived quickly and, without stopping the ball, passed it across to Henry at the edge of the box.

Henry tipped the ball with his right foot, deftly evading the charging Bajramovic. Just as he was about to pass it to the diagonally advancing Rothen, the tracking Shabic slid in from the side and behind, his studs scraping Henry's shin.

The referee blew his whistle and pointed firmly to the penalty spot with his right hand.

Henry bent down to pick up the ball, weighed it in his hand a couple of times, and frowned slightly.

He glanced at the sidelines and saw that Domenech was busy talking to his assistant coach and wasn't giving any instructions.

Roy walked over and patted him on the shoulder: "Thirry, what are you waiting for if not to take the penalty?"

Henry pursed his lips and muttered under his breath, "It's my responsibility to punish you. If I don't punish you, who will?"

After saying that, he took a few steps back, took a deep breath, and ran—

He kicked the ball towards the bottom left corner with his right foot.

Hasajic made a diving save to the side, his fingertips deflecting the ball out of bounds!
Henry held his head in his hands and stood there stunned for a second.

Roy ran over and patted him on the back, but Henry had already turned and walked toward the center circle, his face grim.

A few boos came from the stands, mixed with shouts of "Roy should be punished."

In the 37th minute, Bosnia and Herzegovina pulled one back!
Bosnian left winger Barjic received the ball on the wing, and facing the defense of French right-back Evra, he suddenly changed direction, accelerated down the wing, and crossed the ball after creating half a body length gap.

French center-back Squillaci misjudged the header, and the ball flew towards the far post!
Bosnian center-back Ivica Grillitsch surged forward from the back, outjumping Abidal, and unleashed a powerful header into the goal!

French goalkeeper Barthez made a diving save, but the ball was too fast and went straight into the top corner!

1-1, Bosnia and Herzegovina pulls one back!
42 minutes.

Facing Bosnia and Herzegovina's defensive wall, the French team repeatedly passed the ball around the edge of the penalty area, looking for opportunities.

Rothen passed the ball across to Mavuba, who then passed it back to Pedretti. The Bosnian defense maintained a tight formation throughout.

Suddenly, Roy dropped back to receive the pass and played a quick one-two with Rothen, shaking off Bayramovic's marking.

He dribbled forward, and facing Grealick's blockade, he suddenly changed direction and accelerated, squeezing through the gap between the two defenders!

As he charged into the edge of the penalty area, Papak and Bajic rushed to block him.

Roy feinted a powerful shot, but at the moment of contact with the ball, he flicked his ankle and deftly passed the ball to the unmarked Henry on the right!
Henry met the ball and fired a shot that Hasagic couldn't save, the ball going straight into the net!

2-1! France takes the lead again!
At halftime, Domenech made a four-man substitution: Roy, Henry, Evra, and Squillaci were replaced by Govou, Cissé, Pires, and Givet.

As soon as the four players reached the sidelines, the fourth official raised the substitution board, and the French team completely reorganized its attacking line.

After the start of the second half, the French team's attack clearly stalled.

After Domenech brought on four substitutes, the team's formation became even more conservative.

Govou and Cissé were pinned down in the attacking third, leaving Pires isolated and helpless in midfield, making the entire attack seem to be torn into pieces.

Rothen tried to organize the attack, but Bosnia and Herzegovina's two defensive midfielders, Shabic and Bayramovic, completely surrounded him.

Without Zidane's orchestration, the French midfield was like a team without a backbone, relying solely on long balls and crosses to try their luck.

Roy was able to drop back to receive the ball and dribble past defenders in the first half, but after Cissé came on in the second half, the attacking third completely lost its link-up play.

L'Équipe's post-match column directly posed the question: "Is Domenech really suited to lead this French team?"

The article specifically emphasizes that when Roy frequently dropped back to organize play in the first half, the French team created three excellent opportunities. However, after he was substituted, the French team failed to score a single shot on target in the second half.

French football is facing a happy dilemma: Roy is simply too versatile. He can sprint and score like Henry, orchestrate attacks like Zidane, and even track back and tackle like Makelele. Such talent would be wasted if he were only allowed to stay up front and wait for passes.

French football legend Papin lamented in his L'Équipe column: "Look at Roy's performance at Monaco, he's practically a free man. From the penalty area to midfield, he's wherever he's needed. And we're still using Stone Age tactics! Having two world-class strikers, Henry and Roy, stand like wooden stakes in the penalty area waiting for the ball, while entrusting the playmaking to workhorse midfielders like Rothen and Pedretti? It's like having both a Ferrari and a Porsche, but making them plow the fields!"

"If Zidane retires, he should give the number 10 jersey directly to Roy."

"It's time to let Henry return to his role as a pure striker. Look at Roy's passing vision; he had more assists for Monaco last season than many midfielders. Letting such a talent try to get into scoring positions is like asking Picasso to paint a wall!"

"Henry has the ability to maintain top-level shooting skills, so he should be left in the penalty area to wait for Roy's brilliant passes. During the 98 World Cup, didn't Guivarcz willingly play a supporting role to Zidane? A truly strong team must allow every talent to reach their full potential."

Henry was flipping through L'Équipe one morning when he suddenly gripped the newspaper tightly. Papin's column had compared him to "the new Givalch".

"You're Guivarsh, your whole family are Guivarsh! No wonder you old codger never won the Champions League, you transferred from Marseille to Milan just to watch others lift the trophy, right?"

Guivarcé went to the 1998 World Cup with the halo of two-time Ligue 1 Golden Boot winners, but failed to score a single goal in seven games. When the French team lifted the World Cup trophy, this star striker became known as "the worst player to ever win a World Cup" in the eyes of fans.

Footage of missed open goals and missed one-on-one chances is still being played repeatedly in TV stations' "World Cup Embarrassing Moments" highlights.

Late at night in the suburbs of Paris, Roy drives a red Ferrari Enzo while Evra drives a silver Porsche 911, the two cars speeding along a forest road.

The car headlights illuminated the sycamore trees along the roadside, and the roar of the engine broke the tranquility of the night.

Roy rolled down his window and called out to Evra, who was driving alongside him, "Want to race?"

Evra smiled and stepped on the gas, and the Porsche shot forward.

At a sharp turn, Roy suddenly downshifted and accelerated, and the Ferrari cut through the inside like a red lightning bolt, beautifully drifting past Evra.

Shortly after overtaking, he turned on his right turn signal to indicate that he needed to pull over.

The two cars slowly came to a stop under the sycamore trees by the roadside, the residual heat from their engines rising in the night breeze.

Evra rolled down his window and shouted with a laugh, "You idiot, don't you even slow down when you turn?"

Roy leaned lazily against the car door, twirling the car keys in his fingers: "You want me to go out racing in the middle of the night? I have to fly back to London for training tomorrow."

"Pedretti went to Arsenal, Giuly went to Juventus, and Maicon and you went to Chelsea. Abidal... well, Chelsea wanted me, but ended up signing him. Barcelona have been contacting me recently. Do you think I should go?"

After Evra finished speaking, he remained silent for a few seconds.

He thought of Max, who joined Barcelona last year full of vigor but is now embroiled in transfer rumors, with media reports even suggesting that Barcelona is preparing to sell him in order to free up a foreign player slot.

What made him even more hesitant was Roy's attitude. When Barcelona extended an offer, his friend publicly stated: "I will never play for Barcelona."

"Barcelona is actually quite strong, and it's not impossible for you to go there if you want. They can't stay in a slump forever; those kids from La Masia are really good."

"How do you know this?"

Evra frowned. "You even read Barcelona's scouting reports?"

“That 17-year-old kid Arsenal just signed last year – Cesc Fabregas – is from this year’s La Masia academy. That kid will definitely become the Gunners’ core player in the future, and he’s not even the toughest one from this year’s youth academy.”

Evra hesitated after hearing this.

Roy continued, "If you still want to come to the Premier League, there's no need to rush. Isn't it good to be a key player at Monaco? The Russian owners are willing to give you a raise, and maybe Manchester United will come to buy you in a couple of years—Heinze's attacking ability is average, so it would be perfect for you. As for Barcelona, ​​Van Bronckhorst is in great form right now, so you might not be able to get a starting position if you go there."

"What's wrong? Are you having trouble teaming up with Ribery?" Roy asked, turning his head.

Evra scoffed: "What's that scarred kid so arrogant about? He was a substitute last year, and this year he really thinks he's the core player."

"You say Barcelona is so strong, then why don't you go there yourself? They're willing to give you a historic top salary. Once La Masia's squad is fully developed, wouldn't it be easier to win titles there? Maybe you could even win two more Champions League titles."

Roy suddenly grinned: "Barcelona is strong? The stronger they are, the more satisfying it is for me to beat them."

"Respect your own heart, Patrice."

Roy rested one hand on the car window, the night wind brushing past his fingers. "Go if you want. It doesn't matter which team you end up with."

The engine suddenly roared, and the Enzo's tachometer needle swung wildly to the right.

"I'll still smoke even if I run into you."

The taillights left long red trails on the bend, like a drawn military knife slicing through the night.

Evra watched the Ferrari's taillights disappear into the distance and muttered under his breath, "Damn it, I'm not going."

He always felt that there was something he didn't understand hidden in Roy's hostility towards Barcelona. It wasn't hatred, it was just pure dislike, like an incompatible magnetic field, without any reason but deeply rooted.

It made him inexplicably feel that if he really went to Camp Nou, he might not even be able to make friends with anyone.

He shifted gears and turned around, the sound of the Porsche's engine drowned out by the night in the outskirts of Paris.

August 19, London
When the plane landed at Heathrow Airport, the afternoon sun was shining obliquely on the runway.

He glanced at his watch.

At 1:30 p.m., two hours before Google's Nasdaq opening.

Stockbroker Carlton was waiting for him in his office in Mayfair.

When Roy pushed the door open, Carlton was staring at the computer screen, with a pile of documents spread out on the table.

"Is everything ready?" Roy asked directly.

Carlton nodded: "The three million dollars are in place, just waiting for the opening. But I must remind you, new stocks are very volatile, especially these popular ones."

Roy pulled up a chair and sat down: "I know the risks."

At 3:36 PM, the numbers on the screen began to fluctuate.

It opened at $100.01, $15 higher than the offering price.

Carlton turned to Roy: "Shall we go in now?"

More than an hour later, the stock price suddenly dropped to $97.48.

"Enter?"

Carlton turned and asked.

"purchase."

Roy's eyes never left the screen, and his voice was calm but crisp.

Carlton immediately typed on the keyboard: "How much?"

"Full position."

Roy said briefly, tapping his fingers lightly twice on the table.

"Buy at $97.48."

Carlton pressed the final confirmation button, then turned to Roy, "Should we keep an eye on the closing bell?"

Roy had already stood up: "There's nothing to see."

“But the stock price is still rising,” Carlton pointed to the screen, “and it might go even higher.”

Roy raised his eyebrows: "We've already bought what we needed to buy; the rest is up to the market."

In August 2004, after investing $3 million in Google stock on the day of its IPO, Roy already had a clear plan in mind.

He decided to continue increasing his investment over the next few years, allocating 50% of his annual investable funds to Google, 30% to Apple, and 20% to Amazon.

He intends to maintain this ratio for at least five to six years.

Roy climbed into the driver's seat and started the black Land Rover.

The sleeves of the T-shirt were casually rolled up to the elbows, revealing the slightly tanned arms.

He held the steering wheel with one hand and dialed his financial advisor's number with the other: "Proceed as planned, 50-30-20." The person on the other end was still talking about some emerging investment opportunities, but Roy interrupted him directly: "No need, for now, just these three."

He hung up the phone, lightly pressed the accelerator, and the car drove into the night in the London suburbs.

He knew what the future held.

Google's search box will dominate the world, Apple's gadgets will change people's lifestyles, and Amazon's cardboard boxes will appear at every household's doorstep.

These certainties are worth betting on.

The car turned onto the tree-lined road in the villa area, the tires making a soft crunching sound as they rolled over the gravel.

Roy turned off the engine and sat quietly in the darkness for a while.

When the sun rises tomorrow, his money will have already begun to quietly grow in the digital world.

Now, all he needs to do is wait.

The available funds are still too limited.

Google, Apple, and Amazon are core assets that must be held for the long term, but to truly grow big, these alone are not enough.

He needs to find ways to expand his income sources; he needs to operate his personal brand and expand his business empire—these are all money-devouring beasts.

More importantly, he also had in mind several promising Chinese companies, as well as several emerging payment and social platforms abroad.

These are opportunities that could multiply a hundredfold in the next ten years.

But now, he has to play the cards he's dealt well.

Roy turned off the engine and got out of the car, turning the key on his finger.

Investing is like playing chess; you must seize the opportunities at hand while also leaving enough room for future strategies.

What we need to do now is to get the existing funds rolling as quickly as possible to prepare for the next step.

As for why someone with so much money still plays football?

Because making money is work, playing football is life.

Furthermore, playing football has irreplaceable benefits for his business strategy.

They can receive a club salary and enjoy the exposure of a top-tier league.

Where else can you find an opportunity to do what you love and pave the way for your career?

On August 21, 2004, the second round of the Premier League kicked off, with Chelsea playing away against Birmingham.

New signing Carvalho replaced Gallas in the starting lineup, marking the first start for the Blues by the expensive center-back.

Meanwhile, Brazilian full-back Maicon also made his first start for Chelsea.

Due to loan terms, striker Forsell, on loan from Chelsea to Birmingham, was unable to play, giving Gray, who had just transferred from Crystal Palace on a free transfer, a starting opportunity.

Birmingham's squad also includes several former Chelsea players: Melchiot and Glenkhal, who played for the Blues last season, are both in the starting lineup, and midfielder Izette was also a Chelsea player.

This match was full of reunions with old friends.

New signings Carvalho and Maicon are highly anticipated, while Birmingham hopes to use their home advantage to cause trouble for the star-studded Chelsea squad.

Mourinho's team just won 2-0 against Manchester United in the first round and is in high spirits, aiming to continue their winning streak.

In the locker room, Mourinho gave Carvalho his final instructions: "Carvalho, your job is to mark Heskey tightly and prevent him from receiving the ball with his back to goal. Terry will cover for you, but you must win the first ball."

He turned to Maicon: "Birmingham's left wing is Gray, he's not very fast but his crosses are accurate. When you go up to attack, make sure Gray covers your position first."

“Makelele, Savic likes to push forward, let him shoot from long range, but don’t let him make any dangerous passes. Lampard, when Roy drops back, you push up and form a two-striker formation with Drogba.”

Finally, he glanced at the whole team: "Birmingham will probably focus their attack on our right flank. After Maicon goes up, Gremi, remember to move towards that side."

“Listen carefully, on the counter-attack, prioritize finding Roy; his speed can get past Melchiort and Taylor. When Roy gets the ball, Drogba immediately makes a diagonal run to the right flank, drawing Upson away and creating a one-on-one opportunity for Roy. Lampard moves forward to receive the ball, staying in the middle and on Roy's passing lane. Smertin, pay attention to protecting the left flank; if Roy drops back to receive the ball, you need to move forward immediately to cover his position.”

“We’re also targeting Birmingham’s right flank. Glenkjaer likes to cut inside, and Melchiort makes a lot of runs into the box. Maicon, be decisive when you push forward; Geremi will cover for you. Abidal, watch out for cover; if Glenkjaer cuts inside, you and Carvalho need to double-team him. Makelele, mark Savic closely and don’t let him easily pass to the wing.”

"Remember, Roy is our counter-attacking point, but the whole team needs to work together. Stay compact on defense and move quickly on offense."

The Chelsea players exchanged glances, but no one raised any objections.

Roy, Roy, Roy. This name was repeatedly emphasized on the tactical board, and the entire team's offensive system began to revolve around this Frenchman.

Roy accepted his central position without hesitation, after all, no one could deny his strength: his astonishing explosive power, accurate shooting skills, and innate killer instinct.

A complex atmosphere permeated the locker room.

Although the players understood the necessity of the tactical arrangement, looking at Roy's still somewhat immature face, it was hard for them to be completely convinced.

This French lad has only played one official game for Chelsea, but now he expects the whole team to revolve around him.

But in football, ability speaks for itself, and Roy is indeed so strong that there's nothing to say about it.

The brief silence in the locker room was broken by Roy.

He first looked at Desailly, then turned to Terry: "Isn't the captain going to say something?"

Terry was about to speak when he suddenly stopped.

Desailly gave him a meaningful look, and Terry cleared his throat: "Brothers, let's take Birmingham."

At exactly 4 p.m., deafening cheers erupted simultaneously from all six stadiums in England.

At Anfield Stadium, Liverpool and Manchester City players faced off amidst a deafening roar of cheers from the Kop stand.

At St Andrews Stadium, Birmingham fans greeted Chelsea's challenge with thunderous drumbeats.

Inside the Valley Stadium, Charlton and Portsmouth players clashed amidst the chants of the fans.

At St. James' Park, the match between Newcastle United and Tottenham Hotspur kicked off amidst a sea of ​​black and white flags.

The match between Crystal Palace and Everton at Selhurst Park kicked off with the "Eagle Song".

At Craven Cottage, Fulham and Bolton players battled it out amid cheers from the Thames River.

Six cities, twelve teams, ignited the passion of the Premier League at the same time.

"Good afternoon, everyone! Welcome to St Andrews Stadium. The match between Birmingham City and Chelsea is about to begin!"

The 32,000 seats at St Andrews Stadium were already sold out.

In the home team's stands, blue and white scarves billowed like waves, and the team's anthem, "Keep Right On," was deafening.

The away team, Chelsea fans, were seated in a corner of the stadium, but their cheers still echoed throughout the entire stadium.

Sky Sports commentator Martin Taylor's voice rang out:
"Let's take a look at the standings first - Chelsea beat Manchester United 2-0 in the first round and are currently ranked fourth; while Birmingham drew 1-1 away to Portsmouth and are currently ranked tenth."

"The match begins! Birmingham kicks off. Heskey passes the ball back to Savage, and Birmingham immediately launches an attack! Gray receives the ball on the left wing, facing Maicon's defense."

In his first start for Chelsea, Maicon immediately displayed a strong attacking desire, quickly pressing Gray forward.

But the experienced Gray didn't try to fight head-on, calmly passing the ball back to Izte who had made a run into the box.

The Birmingham left midfielder beat Chelsea's Geremi to the ball and launched a long pass, finding Glenkjaer unmarked on the right flank.

"Grenkhal receives the ball on the right wing! Cross! Heskey heads the ball – but Cech saves it! Corner! Birmingham creates a threat right from the start!"

"Chelsea need to be careful, this newly promoted team looks very motivated! Mourinho has already stood up on the sidelines."

Cech yelled at Carvalho twice, and the Portuguese center-back just nodded silently.

Birmingham players were already in position at the corner flag, and Chelsea players quickly retreated to defend.

Drogba strode into the penalty area to contest the header, while Roy wandered thoughtfully around the edge of the penalty area.

Birmingham took a corner kick, and chaos erupted in the penalty area.

Heskey and Terry fiercely battled for position near the post, their arms entangled as they jumped simultaneously.

Husky barely managed to get a touch on the first spot, but Terry's physical contact caused him to lose his balance.

The ball flew towards the far post, where Carvalho and Upson jumped simultaneously, colliding in mid-air and heading the ball out of the penalty area.

In the ensuing scramble, the ball landed at the edge of the penalty area, and Lampard and Savic both rushed towards the landing point.

Birmingham fans were glued to the battle for space at the edge of the penalty area.

Savage and Lampard both reached out to grab the bouncing ball, and the dull thud of their cleats colliding could even be heard in the stands.

Three yards away from them, Roy, with his back slightly hunched like a cheetah, moved closer to Lampard to cover, while using his peripheral vision to measure the distance between himself and Taylor, Birmingham's last line of defense.

Inside the penalty area, Drogba had already quietly started his run, and Upson was frantically grabbing at his jersey.

The cheers from the stands suddenly became hesitant, and many home fans had already stood up, with half a warning lingering in their throats.

"Savage! Take it!"

"Watch out for that French kid!"

"Get back on defense quickly!"

A sudden, trembling cry: "Oh no...no no no!"

Lampard managed to poke the ball through Savic's entanglement, and it rolled crookedly towards Roy's side, about five yards away.

The moment Lampard kicked the ball, Roy's body had already leaned slightly forward.

His startup doesn't require a buffer like most people.

"Wait—Roy's started! My God, that speed is incredible!"

The first step covered two meters, and the cleats on the shoes instantly shattered the grass.

By the second step, the speed had reached its peak, and the folds on the back of the jersey billowed by the wind resembled a fully unfurled sail.

The entire acceleration process took less than two seconds, but every moment revealed how his taut calf muscles transformed the reaction force of the grass into terrifying speed.

Birmingham's Taylor, who was leisurely retreating to defend in the center circle, suddenly noticed that the figure in blue was visibly swallowing up the thirty-meter distance.

"Birmingham's players were desperately trying to catch up, but Roy's speed gave them no chance! He was like a sports car in full gear, while everyone else was still pressing the accelerator!"

Izette, who was chasing back, stretched out his leg to intercept, but Roy simply flicked the ball gently, and it swept past him at full speed.

Savage lunged out from the side, attempting a tactical foul. His fingers had barely hooked onto Roy's shirt when the Frenchman's terrifying sprinting speed caused him to lose his balance.

He tumbled to the ground like a sack of potatoes being tossed aside, and could only watch helplessly as Roy continued to speed away.

When Melchiort finally closed in from the side, Roy suddenly changed direction and cut inside, and Birmingham's right-back slid out of bounds due to inertia.

The last fifteen meters were a pure straight-line sprint.

"Stop him! Stop him, you fucking idiot!"

"It's all over, it ...."

"Taylor! Shove him! Take him down now!"

Taylor made a desperate sliding tackle, but Roy got there half a step ahead and poked the ball away, leaping over the tackle and landing one-on-one with the goalkeeper.

The entire St. Andrews stadium was completely silent.

From his own penalty area to the opponent's penalty area, Roy only dribbled the ball five times, yet he made four defenders look like pathetic backdrops.

Mark Taylor gritted his teeth and rushed out of the penalty area, but Roy cut inside with his right foot in the blink of an eye.

The ball obediently rolled to the right, but Taylor's center of gravity was tricked into tilting to the left.

Their knees rubbed together violently, and Taylor was thrown off balance by the impact.

Roy staggered three steps like a runaway race car, his left leg trembling but he held onto the ball tightly.

As Taylor struggled to turn around, Roy had already adjusted his pace and swung his right foot to blast the ball into the empty net.

The sound of the net trembling and the wailing of the home fans erupted at the same time, and Roy then fell heavily onto the grass, sliding into the goal with the momentum, colliding head-on with the ball that had just entered the net.

Mourinho leaped to his feet from the bench, slamming his fist into the air: "YES! YES! FANTASTICO!"

He roared the last Portuguese word so loudly that each syllable exploded out like three bullets from his throat.

This series of short, multilingual roars, accompanied by that signature punching motion.

"This is exactly what I want! This is exactly what I want! Simple! Efficient!"

He roared at the bench: "See that? That's what you call a counter-attack!"

Mourinho whirled around and punched the home team's stands, the Birmingham players' pre-match taunts still echoing in his ears: "You beat Manchester United but you can't beat us!"

He smirked and yelled back at the stands, "Manchester United can win, so what are you guys!"

Mourinho's roar was like a slap in the face, and the Birmingham fans in the front row stopped singing abruptly.

But the next second, dozens of middle fingers were raised in unison, and a torrent of insults crashed down on the sidelines:

"Portuguese bastard!"

"Go back to Stamford Bridge!"

The fourth official immediately stepped in, pointing a finger to his temple as a warning: "Coach, watch your words and actions!"

Mourinho forced a smile: "Understood, officer."

"Keep going! Keep going! One more in!"

He struggled to emerge from the crowd, first waving his fist at the churning blue sea of ​​the away team's stands, which caused the traveling fans' chants to rise eight octaves.

As he turned around, he wiped the grass clippings off his face and pointed to the middle circle with his index finger.

In London, a young man wearing a Millwall jersey, who was eating a hot dog, suddenly stared intently at the broadcast screen.

When Roy wiped the grass off his face, not even his eyelashes trembled; his finger pointing towards the center circle looked like he was counting down for a death row inmate.

"That Chelsea bastard is fucking cool."

He turned to his companion and muttered, "If we still can't get promoted to the Premier League this season, I might as well just go watch the games at Stamford Bridge."

"Damn, Roy didn't even smile after scoring, just like that cold-blooded doctor in 'Closer'!"

"Next time he celebrates, he should learn from Clive Irving and say 'Hello, stranger,' that'll definitely scare the opposing defenders to the ground."

"Look at that cool and aloof aura, absolutely amazing!"

The Birmingham manager stood on the sidelines, gesturing rapidly with his hands, first pointing at Savage, then pressing down hard.

Savage glanced back, then immediately stepped between Upson and Taylor, the three of them standing in a straight line.

The entire rear defensive line moved back ten meters, and the distance between the two defensive lines became very narrow.

Makelele stood in midfield, his eyes fixed on Savic.

When Savic first tried to pass the ball to Lazaridis on the left, Makelele suddenly started and stretched out his foot to block the ball.

Two minutes later, Savic tried to pass the ball to the wing again, but Makelele once again anticipated the move and intercepted it.

The third time, Savic had just lifted his foot when Makelele blocked the passing lane, forcing Savic to pass back to the goalkeeper.

Gremi and Smertin began taking turns attacking Birmingham's full-backs.

Every time Lazaridis got the ball, Smertin would immediately close in, forcing him to kick it forward with long balls.

The same goes for Melchiort on the right; Geremi is marking him closely, preventing him from passing the ball properly.

Lampard received the ball in midfield, looked up to observe, and then passed it diagonally to the left wing.

Roy, who was originally positioned at center forward, suddenly started running laterally towards the flanks.

Taylor immediately followed.

Roy suddenly stopped halfway through his run, while Taylor continued to run forward two steps due to inertia.

Drogba seized the opportunity and quickly moved into the gap behind Taylor.

Before the ball could bounce, Roy volleyed it towards the center of the penalty area with his left foot.

Drogba leaped high and headed the ball towards the top right corner of the goal.

Mark Taylor quickly took two steps back, stretched his arm to its limit, and tipped the ball over the crossbar with his fingertips.

Chelsea are awarded a corner kick.

Lampard walked to the corner flag area, but instead of driving directly into the penalty area, he made a short pass to Roy who came over to receive the pass.

Roy received the ball at the corner of the penalty area, feigned a shot, and actually used the outside of his right foot to chip the ball toward the far post.

Carvalho burst through the crowd and headed the ball from the edge of the six-yard box, but it grazed the far post and went out of play.

In the 33rd minute, Johnson attempted a cross pass near the center circle, but Makelele suddenly intercepted the ball.

The French midfielder didn't hesitate and immediately delivered a low through ball.

Roy started his run three meters behind Johnson and quickly shook off Johnson's pursuit in just two steps.

Taylor quickly advanced from the penalty area, attempting to block Roy's path of attack.

The two met at the edge of the penalty area, and Roy suddenly flicked the ball to the right, changing direction and moving to the outside.

Melchiort chased back at full speed from the side and rear, and lunged to tackle Roy just as he was about to kick.

Roy got to the ball before he could make a tackle and shot with his right foot into the far corner.

The ball deflected off Melchiort's outstretched leg, tracing a strange arc before rolling slowly into the net past the fallen goalkeeper.

"Melchiot is desperately chasing back! He makes a diving tackle, but Roy gets there first and shoots! The ball deflects off a defender's leg. GOAL! Chelsea 2-0! This Frenchman is simply unstoppable!"

"Makelele's interception was crucial; Roy's acceleration left Johnson far behind. Taylor's defensive choice to retreat while fighting was smart, but Roy's final change of direction completely disrupted the defensive rhythm. Melchiort did his best, but this deflected goal is a goalkeeper's nightmare!"

"Listen to the boos at St Andrews Stadium! The Chelsea fans who traveled with the team are chanting Roy's name, while the Birmingham players are dejected. They are already two goals down after just 33 minutes. If they don't pull one back soon, the home fans will probably start leaving early."

Roy rushed toward the away fans' stand, then suddenly stopped.

He crossed his arms in front of his chest, making a metal salute gesture, with his fingers pointing straight to the sides.

The traveling Chelsea fans immediately erupted in a unified chant: "The Demon King! The Demon King! The Demon King!"

The roar of the crowd echoed through the stadium like a battle cry.

Roy held the pose for three seconds, then swept his right hand across his brow in a crisp military salute.

Then he turned and ran back to the center circle, with sporadic boos from Birmingham fans and continuous chants from Chelsea fans behind him.

In the 40th minute, Drogba received the ball with his back to goal at the edge of the penalty area.

Upson marked closely, but the Ivorian used his body to push past his opponent and pass the ball to Maicon, who had made a run down the right flank.

The Brazilian full-back delivered a low cross without stopping the ball, and Roy suddenly surged forward to the near post, flicking the ball with his right heel as he ran.

The ball headed straight for the near corner, but Taylor reacted quickly, using his left leg to block it out of bounds.

The corner kick was cleared by Birmingham, and Lampard unleashed a powerful shot from 25 meters outside the penalty area.

Savic lunged to block, and the ball slammed into his face and bounced out of bounds.

The Welsh midfielder was immediately covered in blood, and the team doctor rushed onto the field to treat him.

After receiving basic first aid, Savage was helped to the sidelines, leaving Birmingham with one less player.

Chelsea fans at Stamford Bridge sang loudly, while the home stands remained silent.

Despite Birmingham's retreat, Chelsea still managed to create scoring opportunities through midfield pressure and attacks down the flanks.

Makelele and Lampard completely controlled the midfield tempo, while Roy's explosiveness kept Birmingham's defense constantly on the run.

When the halftime whistle blew, the score was 2-0, with Chelsea going into the locker room with a clear advantage.

In the locker room tunnel, Maicon told Roy, "It was the same last year at Monaco. You always stepped up in crucial moments. You were the biggest contributor to those three trophies: Ligue 1, the Champions League, and the French Cup. Now at Chelsea, you're still the one who can change the game."

Roy replied, "That's because I have a teammate like you behind me. You can attack and defend in Monaco, and you can do it here too. Your pass today was beautiful."

Maicon said, "Remember your winning goal in last season's Champions League final? Today's counter-attack reminded me of that game. Do you think it's possible for us to win the treble again?"

After Maicon finished speaking, the passageway suddenly fell silent for a few seconds.

Mourinho stood behind the two men, his face darkening.

He remembers clearly that it was Roy's winning goal in last season's Champions League final that crushed his Porto team.

But now Maicon says he'll "lead" him to the treble, a statement he can't refute.

Mourinho ultimately said nothing, simply walking briskly past the two men.
Maicon froze as he saw Mourinho's back.

Just as the Brazilian's forehead began to sweat, Mourinho suddenly turned around.

"gentlemen."

The Portuguese man spoke gently with a smile, "You'd better keep your word."

Maicon swallowed hard, then turned to Roy and forced a wry smile: "Looks like we really have no choice but to win the treble."

"Don't drag me into your bragging. The Premier League isn't like Ligue 1; winning the treble isn't that easy."

Roy patted him on the back silently, and the two quickly followed him inside.

At halftime, Mourinho made two substitutions: Gudjohnsen replaced Drogba, and Thiago Mendes replaced Smertin.

The latter is making his first appearance on the roster since recovering from injury.

After the start of the second half, Birmingham's defensive formation became more compact.

Savage returned to the back line, forming a three-man defense with Upson and Taylor, compressing the distance between the two defensive lines to less than 20 meters.

Chelsea's attack encountered resistance, with Makelele's numerous attempts at through balls being intercepted.

In the 53st minute, Roy dropped back to midfield to receive the pass.

Thiago Mendes passed the ball to him, and Roy turned past Johnson and dribbled the ball to the edge of the penalty area.

Taylor stepped up to block, Roy suddenly passed the ball across, and Gudjohnsen took a shot near the penalty spot, but the ball grazed the post and went wide.

Birmingham's counterattacks were few and far between.

Heskey was isolated in the attacking third, and Terry's close marking made it difficult for him to get the ball.

In the 67th minute, Gronkjaer broke through on the right and crossed the ball. Heskey managed a weak header, but Cech easily caught it.

In the 75th minute, Roy created another threat.

He received a pass from Abidal on the left wing, dribbled past Melchiort with a series of changes of direction, and crossed the ball from the byline.

Gudjohnsen attempted a shot at the near post, but Taylor blocked the ball out of bounds with his leg.

After the corner kick was taken, Terry's header went over the crossbar.

In the final stages of the match, Birmingham retreated entirely to the defensive.

In the 88th minute, Roy had another shot inside the penalty area, which was blocked by Upson's body.

The final score was 2-0, and Chelsea took three points away from home.

(End of this chapter)