When playing football, you should call it GOAT.

Chapter 32 They may bark as they please, but I am the truth (Please continue reading!)

March 29, 2003, before the European Championship qualifiers.

In the press room of the Stade de France in Paris, flashbulbs went off as cameras focused on the presidential platform.

From left to right.

Head coach Santini unconsciously tapped the table with his right index finger.

In reality, Zidane, the vice-manager, was slumped in his chair, his eyes half-closed.

Missing the first day of training, veteran captain Desailly, who arrived late, has already become a substitute at Chelsea, merely a symbolic "spiritual leader".

Forward Henry feigned focus, pretending to take notes.

Of course, there is also the ghost of the absentee.

Santini deliberately left Vieira's seat to Zidane's left, with an unopened bottle of Evian mineral water on the table.

This is basically the current power structure within the French national team.

Following the disastrous defeat at the 2002 World Cup, the French team entered a leadership vacuum, with the captain's armband constantly being contested and the team in a period of uncertainty regarding the transfer of power.

This chaos will continue indefinitely.
Even more than twenty years later, the handover was still not clear.

By then, the French can still say that there will never be another dressing room leader like Didier Deschamps.

At present, Zidane is the invisible controller. Although he does not have the official title of captain, he has absolute tactical authority.

Vieira was gradually established as the new core player after the 2002 World Cup, and Santini privately called him "my Roy Keane," implying his future captaincy. However, he is now missing a crucial qualifying match due to injury.

Henry also expressed his dissatisfaction, complaining to L'Équipe in January: "At Arsenal I lead the team every day, but here I have to listen to the old guys lecturing me."

Don't assume that only island nations enjoy overthrowing their superiors.

In fact, no young and promising person would like Old Bi to ride on their head and boss them around.

As for Roy, he is too young and has no honors to his name.

He could only smile and play the role of a "sunny big boy".

I am not yet grown up; when I am grown up, things will change.

During the latter half of the press conference, a reporter stood up to ask a question:
"Why was number 11 given to Roy instead of its original owner, Wiltord?"

Santini's tactical smile:
"Numbers are just numbers, not medals. Wiltord's contribution to the 2000 European Championship is unforgettable, but the French team's tradition is that numbers belong to the person who is best suited for the moment."

Tell Wiltord that his peak is over and he shouldn't rest on his laurels.

Hinting at Roy's potential, number 11 now needs a new definition.

Wiltord, sitting in the back, crushed a water bottle, his facial muscles stiff.

Roy, on the other hand, seemed indifferent, with a relaxed smile on his face.

"Roy's goal-scoring efficiency in Ligue 1 is extremely high. Does this mean he will directly replace Wiltord?"

Santini stared coldly: "Football isn't a math problem; efficiency doesn't equal starting. Wiltord's experience, positioning, and defensive contributions are things that data can't reflect."

I reassured the veterans that I would not easily dismiss meritorious officials.

Tell Roy not to think that having good stats can make him take over the starting lineup; whether he gets a starting spot depends on his position.

Will Roy play in the next game?

Santini's answer was tactically ambiguous:

“I have 23 names on my roster, but only 11 can start. Whether Roy plays depends on whether he can prove in training that he is more reliable than the others.”

Wiltord got up and left, deliberately making his footsteps louder.

After thinking for a moment, Santini added, "Of course, the final decision rests with me and my coaching staff."

This is a signal of goodwill towards Zidane's faction.

All signs in recent days indicate that this promising young star has become the new vanguard of Zidane's camp.

Santini decided to bring Roy on as a substitute in this match.

If Roy scores.

To prove that I have a discerning eye.

If Roy performs poorly.

See, I told you he wasn't ready yet.

Who exactly said that there are no human relationships abroad and that only strength matters?

March 29, 2003, European Championship qualifier, France vs. Malta.

Against the backdrop of the magnificent symphonic version of "La Marseillaise," the Canal+ commentator's tone was impassioned:
"Tonight, the lights of the Stade de France illuminate the night in blue, white, and red! After the nightmare of the 2002 World Cup, the defending champions, France, have finally embarked on their path to redemption in the European Championship!"

"Can Zidane's golden generation regain their former glory? Meanwhile, on the other side, the small Mediterranean nation of Malta, with their fearless spirit, challenge the giants!"

"But please note, gentlemen, there is no mercy on the football field!"

The players from both sides lined up in two rows and entered the field.

France (4-2-3-1)

"Goalkeeper, number 16, Fabian Barthez! This bald-headed goalkeeper desperately needs a clean sheet to wash away the shame of the World Cup!"

"In defense, number 15 Thuram, number 2 Gallas, number 13 Silvestre, and number 3 Lizarazu! Four iron gatekeepers, vowing not to let Malta cross the line even a step!"

"The midfield anchors, number 18 Pedretti and number 6 Makelele! They are the strongest shield in front of Zidane!"

"The attacking line: Zidane (number 10), Henry (number 12), Wiltord (number 14), and Trezeguet (number 17)!"

"And on the bench."

The live broadcast camera cut to Roy.

"Monaco's rising star, number 11 Roy, is waiting for his moment!"

Malta (532)

Deschamps' home is a penthouse in Monte Carlo, Monaco, with a balcony facing the Stade Louis II.

His wife, Dominique Deschamps, and their seven-year-old daughter, Valentina, were watching television with him.

Deschamps sneered as he watched Roy adjust his shin guards on the bench.
"That idiot Santini, I would have started him long ago, he tore the defense apart."

The live broadcast camera swooped down from the dome of the Stade de France, alternating between close-ups of Zidane stepping on the ball and images of Maltese players nervously swallowing.

Tens of thousands of fans in the stadium chanted in unison, "Allez les Bleus!" (Go, Azzurri!)
Claude, Deschamps' bulldog, barked wildly at Zidane on the television. A whistle blew.

Thirty-fifth minute of the match.

The moment the man in the blue number 10 jersey lightly touched the football, he ignited a surge of passion in the Arena of France.

Makelele made a cross, and Zidane, with his back to Maltese midfielder Calabott, lightly touched the ball with his right foot and feinted to the left.

Using his left foot as a pivot, he dances with his right foot, pulling the ball around his body almost in a circle.

Calabore was tricked and stumbled, missing his target.

Zidane dribbled the ball two meters, and Malta's other midfielder, Novok, came to cover. He flicked the ball with the outside of his right foot, and it went between the opponent's legs.

Calmly look up and observe, locking onto the moment Wiltord starts his attack.

He then curled a ball with his right foot, a light and elusive over-the-top shot that perfectly bypassed the entire Maltese defense and landed nine yards in front of the goal.

Wiltord started half a step faster than defender Mamo, creating a one-on-one opportunity.

After breaking into the penalty area, he faked a shot and then cut inside, causing Mamo, who was closely following him, to lose his balance and fall onto the grass.

Facing goalkeeper Muscat, Wiltord fired a right-footed shot into the far corner, the ball finding the back of the net.

Wiltord then launched a revenge celebration, ignoring Zidane who ran over and reached out his hand, and sprinted sixty meters past several teammates before rushing to the die-hard fans' section and pounding his chest three times.

With veins bulging on his left hand gripping the number 14 behind his back, and his right thumb slamming into the number, Roy on the bench roared, "That number is mine!"

Fans in the North Stand, ignited by the goal, roared in response: "Sylvain, they stole your number!!!"

Canal+ commentator's voice boomed: "Wiltord let the goal speak for itself! The number 11 pass went to Roy, but the number 14's fury ignited the Arena of France!"

Meanwhile, the BBC commentators were even more excited: "The French civil war is more exciting than the match itself!!! Wiltord just fired the first shot at Santini!!!"

The French fans in the stands grew increasingly agitated, with die-hard supporters in the North Stand chanting in unison:
"Santini! You've ruined a legend!"

A middle-aged, old-school fan, with his neck stiffened, shouted: "Who scored the winning goal against Italy in the 2000 European Championship? Was it Roy? No, it was Silva!"

But Roy is popular among young people.

A young fan wearing a Roy jersey had beer thrown on him by people around him. He stood up and fought back, but was immediately surrounded and attacked. His jersey was torn, and the situation was only calmed down after security intervened.

On the sidelines, a reporter from L'Équipe was taking notes in his notebook: When Wiltord's thumb pierced through number 14, what he really wanted to pierce was Santini's arrogance and Roy's ambition.

Wiltord's roar still echoed from the substitutes' bench.

Rothen lowered his voice and subtly pointed to the stands, warning, "It feels like the whole stadium wants to kill you. If someone were to bring up Louis XVI's guillotine right now, they'd be shouting 'Execute number 11!'"

Coupet and Govou from the Lyon group exchanged a silent glance, their lips twitching.

They witnessed Roy's breakout performance in Monaco firsthand.

Especially Coupet, after Roy came on and scored with a powerful shot from a tight angle, breaking through his defense, and then won a penalty to send Lyon, who had been dominating, away from the game, he said in the locker room: "You guys have no idea how good that kid is."

Roy sneered, his voice low but each word like a knife:

"It doesn't matter. Everything will change when I go on the field and start scoring."

"Fans are the most forgetful people; they'll love whoever makes them happy!"

Coupe and Govou exchanged a glance, admiring Roy's talent while also being wary of his arrogance.

"When you score the first goal, they'll shut up; the second, they'll say, 'This kid's not bad,' and then hesitate whether to applaud; if you score the third, the die-hard fans will start tearing down the banners supporting Wiltord."

Coupe pretended to adjust his gloves, but actually nudged Roy lightly with his knee and whispered, "Watch out, Santini's watching."

But to everyone's surprise, Roy turned to the side and revealed a cruel smile.

He uttered his last words softly, so softly that only Rothen could hear them.

"When my total goals surpass Wiltord's, or any other old guy with more goals than him, they'll forget the word 'legend' and kneel down shouting: 'You're the fucking awesome one! The others aren't even worthy of giving you blowjobs!'"

"Only those who are dead or about to die are called legends. When people reminisce about legends, it is often because there are no younger, tougher players on the field."

Rothen's pupils dilated sharply: "Are you crazy? If this gets out, the media will devour you alive."

Two minutes later, Malta, like that tiny island in the Mediterranean, was once again swallowed by the blue tide.

Pedretti delivered a precise through ball that pierced the defense, and Henry sprinted forward before unleashing a powerful shot into the far corner to score another goal.

The French team entered the locker room with a two-goal lead.

Wiltord swaggered in, took off his soaking wet number 14 jersey, deliberately tossed it in front of Roy's locker, and then exaggeratedly sniffed it: "Strange, why does it smell like the milk from the youth academy?"

Henry also spoke out against the injustice and decided to stand up for his club teammates.

Then he put his arm around Wiltord's neck and laughed:

"You can't become king just by wearing a certain size, right? Ha!"

Zidane raised his head and eyebrows, without saying a word.

Roy sat in front of his cabinet and turned his headphones up to the maximum volume.

Till I Collapse.

The noise in the locker room was crushed by the hydraulic hammer-like drumbeats, and Eminem's roar was like a scalpel, dissecting Roy's anger and ambition.

I will not fall.

I will not fall.
I will stand tall
I will stand tall
It feels like no one can beat me.
He felt invincible.

"Till I Collapse" is a declaration of battle.

Eminem described the song as "for all the underrated warriors".

Just as he said:
"They can say whatever they want, I'm the truth."
What Roy was hearing at that moment wasn't music, but the impending landslide.

----------

Today is the end of the month, so there will be double monthly votes, and I'll be updating with three 10,000-word chapters.

If you gentlemen can spare some of your saved-up monthly votes, please send them to me.

To clarify one more point, I've tried to maintain a consistent tone in this book: there's no right or wrong, only perspectives.

I would think about this character, and from his perspective, and with his personality, how he would treat the protagonist.

In fact, my three favorite strikers in the Premier League are Van Persie, Kane, and Henry.

So Gunners fans shouldn't misunderstand. I have no problem with Wiltord and Henry, it's just a conflict of interest. The same applies if similar storylines involving other people appear in the future.

(End of this chapter)