When playing football, you should call it GOAT.

Chapter 33 First Battle (Please continue reading!)
"Wiltord! He's cut past DiMeci! Beautiful change of direction! Look at that pass—the curve! Precision! Henry!!!"

The pass went straight to Henry's head inside the penalty area and landed.

He shoved Mamo aside with his left shoulder, and then subtly grabbed another defender's jersey with his right hand, clearing space for a jump like a wrestler.

With a sudden surge of his neck muscles, he struck the ball squarely in the center of his forehead—unleashing a powerful, high-impact shot that bounced off the ground half a meter in front of the goal line, before darting under Muscat's arm and into the net.

The BBC commentator in the UK let out a hysterical scream:
"Thirry Henry!!! He pounced on his prey like a cheetah! He smashed through the defense! Header!!! GOALLLLL!!!!"

The net trembled violently, and goalkeeper Muscat knelt on the ground, bewildered.

"3-0! France has completely crushed Malta! Henry and Wiltord – this old duo – have once again left their opponents in despair!"

Wiltord rushed toward the corner flag, deliberately turning his back to the bench to show off his number 14 jersey once again.

He exaggeratedly made a "phone call" gesture towards the camera, while lip-reading to Roy, saying, "Hello? Here's your number back? The signal's bad!"

Henry immediately rushed over and hugged Wiltord's neck in celebration, yelling into the microphone of a reporter on the sidelines: "That's a classic combination! Can some people ever learn that?!"

Wiltord had already prepared his interview script for the mixed zone that evening. He himself hadn't expected himself to be so talented: "Some people can steal numbers, but they can't steal my bullets."

L'Équipe reporter's quick comment: "When Wiltord assisted Henry's header to smash the Malta goal, what was truly breached was the dignity of the number 11's defense on the bench."

On the bench, Roy chewed gum expressionlessly.

In the Canal+ studio, the commentator watches the camera switch:

"Look at Roy's expression. He's chewing gum, but his eyes don't look relaxed. What will Santini choose? Continue to trust the veteran, or give the newcomer a chance?"

"Malta's defense was completely outmaneuvered! Wiltord's pass was like a scalpel, while Henry finished with the most brutal method—that's the terrifying thing about the French team, a combination of elegance and violence!"

"But here's the problem: when Wiltord and Henry are in hot form, does Roy still have a chance? Locker room politics are sometimes harder to manage than the tactics board."

Studio guest, former French international Eric Cantona, chimed in:

"Roy has to wait, but he won't wait forever. I like the kid's temperament and style of play, and some of the things he says in interviews are quite philosophical. Santini needs to be careful; there's tension in the locker room."

"The game is no longer in doubt, but the real drama may have just begun—will Roy play? If he does, can he prove he deserves the number 11 jersey? We'll have to wait and see!"

On the pitch, fans sang "La Marseillaise." The camera focused on Roy, who stared at the field, his fingers unconsciously tapping his knee, as if counting down.
The French team launched a relentless offensive.

Three minutes later, Lizarazu cut into the penalty area like lightning. Defender Simon Villa's tackle was a fraction of a second too slow, and his studs grazed the Basque's ankle.

The referee blew the whistle, and Vera raised his hand in despair.

But Zidane had already picked up the ball, wiped it with his sleeve, and his eyes were as calm as the deep sea.

Zidane placed the ball steadily at the penalty spot, then took four steps back, his usual stride.

Maltese goalkeeper Muscat jumped back and forth on the goal line in an attempt to interfere, but Zidane didn't even lift an eyelid.

"Feint! Low shot into the blind spot!!! BUUUUUT—!!!!"

"That's a master! That's a king! Muscat was frozen in place, while Zidane—even his celebrations were so elegant!"

At the Arena of France, the 4-0 scoreline sent Santini into a frenzy, as if he had already forgotten about bringing Roy on.

Meanwhile, in the stands, agent Miliacho's fingertips were striking a storm of keys on two mobile phones.

Phone A (Public Relations Team)
Recipient: Correspondent for the French newspaper L'Équipe.

"Prepare a press release about 'Wiltor losing control of his emotions,' accompanied by a close-up photo of him tearing off his jersey—downplaying Roy's involvement."

Recipient: Monaco President Campora
Drafts (not sent):

“We can sit down and talk about that child.”

Mobile Phone B (Zidane's Line)

Drafts (not sent):

"Zizou, don't respond to Roy's matter, the reporters will keep pressing him."

Miliajo didn't know why Roy had gotten involved in this farce; in his opinion, Roy was too outspoken.

Upon joining a club, they immediately vie for a starting position; upon joining the national team, they snatch the jersey of a veteran player. Wiltord was the hero of the European Championship's decisive goal, and his European Championship achievement was magnified even more against the backdrop of the humiliating elimination from the World Cup.

It's normal for this to provoke anger and backlash from national team fans.

Miljacchio's anger and calculation stemmed from the fact that if the media linked Roy's domineering behavior to Zidane, it would shake the foundation of Miljacchio's agent empire.

His core interest: Zidane's image must be perfect, and Roy's controversy must not spill over onto the "King".

A L'Équipe reporter on the sidelines wrote in shorthand: "Wiltord is reborn, Roy is relegated to the background."

Seventy-first minute.

Henry launched a surprise attack down the left flank. After receiving the ball on the left side, he used a shoulder drop and a change of direction to shake off the Maltese full-back, then accelerated violently.

He delivered a deadly lobbed pass from outside the penalty area with his left foot; the ball wasn't fast, but its placement was precise.

The edge of the penalty area is Trezeguet's hunting ground.

He leaped into the air like Goliath, overpowering Mamo and smashing his head down so hard that Mamo couldn't even touch his jersey.

The ball slammed into the net like a cannonball, and goalkeeper Muscat didn't even have time to make a save.

5-0. Trezeguet roared after landing, his arms outstretched like a victory cross.

The camera cuts to Mamo slumped on the ground.

"The Maltese coach finally couldn't stand it anymore. Mamo was substituted; he had been humiliated by the French strikers one after another tonight."

The fourth official held up a sign:

[Roy replaces Wiltord (14)]

"And the French team also made an adjustment - Roy came on! Wiltord slowly walked off the field, but the fire in his eyes had not been extinguished."

Wiltord slowly walked down the bench, refused to high-five Roy, and went straight to the bench, covering his head with a towel.

Zidane nodded slightly, avoiding Wiltord's gaze, and whispered to Makelele, "Let the kid make his own way."

A few scattered applause came from the die-hard fans' stands, but more people chanted "SYLVAIN!" to protest the decision to replace him.

Neutral fans peered curiously, wanting to see what this "young man who snatched the number" was capable of.

Roy stepped onto the grass; beneath his feet lay not a 5-0 defeat, but the battleground for the future power of the French team.

Seventy-sixth minute.

Zidane received a short pass from Makelele with his back to goal, then subtly tapped his right foot, feigning a pass to the right wing.

Malta's midfielder Novokor had just shifted his weight to the right when Zidane suddenly pulled back with his left foot. Roy, who was moving on the right, suddenly stopped and turned back, cutting across the center circle into the left-side space. Caraport, who was marking him, quickly followed.

Zidane didn't adjust his footing; he supported himself with his left foot, pointed the outside of his right foot, and curled a low, low arc into the ground.

The ball wasn't fast, but it precisely pierced through the gap between the two defenders and headed straight for Roy's feet.

Canal's commentary tone was calm yet expectant.

"Zidane makes a brilliant move! A through ball with the outside of his foot—Roy receives the ball, let's see how he handles it!"

Roy controlled the ball with his right foot, and Calabole stopped abruptly to chase back, lowering his left shoulder as if to tackle.

Roy didn't go for a head-on collision. Instead, he quickly performed two one-two passes with his right foot. The movements were small, but the rhythm was extremely fast. Then, he gently pushed the ball to the right front with the outside of his left foot, while lowering his center of gravity and accelerating with a powerful dribble.

"Roy receives the ball! Facing Calabore—a stepover! Left foot! Right foot! Silky smooth like butter on a knife's edge! A powerful dribble with the outside of his foot!!!"

Carabote turned to follow, but his knees buckled slightly from the sudden change of direction, leaving him half a body length behind.

"Carabert's knees were screaming! He was blown two meters away in one step! Roy's acceleration was like a catapult firing—BOOM!"

The newly substituted defender, Chetcuttti, moved laterally to cover the ball. Roy raised his right foot as if to cut inside, but at the moment of contact, he used the inside of his right foot to flick the ball to his left.

"The defense is coming to cover! Roy raised his foot and pretended to cut inside—he fooled him! He lightly flicked the inside of his right foot!"

Chetcutt twisted his ankle, his cleats scraping dirt and debris on the turf, but Roy had already swept past him on his right.

"My God! That crossover caused the defender to trip over himself!"

Facing a double block in front of the penalty area, Roy made a show of force.

Supporting himself with his left foot, he feigned a shot with his right foot before actually dribbling.

When both defenders stretched out their legs to intercept, he flicked the ball to the right with his left heel, and the ball passed through the gap between them. He then lightly jumped to the right with the ball, causing the two defenders to collide.

"A double block? Roy laughed! He flicked the ball with his left heel! The ball slipped through the gaps in the defense, and the defenders collided like bowling pins!"

Roy didn't chase the ball at full speed, but instead jogged a couple of steps, letting the ball roll naturally into his right foot's comfort zone.

"Adjust your footwork. Goalkeeper rushes out for a chip shot!!!"

Goalkeeper Muscat had already rushed out to the edge of the six-yard box when Roy gently flicked the ball with the instep of his right foot. The ball arced low, just over the goalkeeper's fingertips, and bounced off the underside of the crossbar into the net.

The ball speed wasn't fast, but the angle was extremely tricky.

The goalkeeper didn't even make a full save attempt; he just looked up in vain, watching the ball fall into the corner of the net.

"The ball was tracing a deadly parabola in the air! The goalkeeper's fingers were still a galaxy's distance from the ball—"

"BUUUUUUUUT!!! Roy's first international goal came so quickly! The net is trembling! The scoreboard is burning! The Arena of France is shaking!"

Zidane smiled slightly and nodded to Makelele – “This kid is good.”

Henry was taken aback at first, then shook his head and chuckled, clapping but not overly enthusiastically, his eyes filled with admiration and a competitive spirit.

Trezeguet grinned and rushed over to ruffle Roy's hair. He didn't care who was wearing the damn number 11 jersey; he only cared whether Roy could score.

Wiltord covered his head with a towel, but peeking through the gap, his fingers were white from clenching them.

Roy refused to celebrate, turning away expressionlessly without even glancing at the bench.

He gently patted the team emblem on his left chest with his right hand, the force just enough to make the number 11 on his chest tremble slightly, as if to say, "This is just the beginning."

The young man who got the beer splashed had sticky, dry hair.

Suddenly, he grabbed the railing, veins bulging, and roared, "Roy! Tear them apart!!!"

(End of this chapter)