When playing football, you should call it GOAT.

Chapter 87 He's just someone who came to play football (1.4 words)

On July 10, 2003, night fell over the residential area along the Monaco waterfront.

In Deschamps' study, the desk lamp cast a dim, yellowish glow on the tactical board.

He scribbled and drew on the transfer list with his pen.

"Max is gone, $525 million."

The pen nib paused next to the name of Barcelona, ​​then circled Pauleta's name.

After Paris Saint-Germain signed the Portuguese player from Bordeaux, Nonda's transfer negotiations lasted for a full month, and the final figure of 620 million euros was settled on fax paper.

The sound of a yacht's horn came from outside the window.

Deschamps' gaze swept over the loan list: Suleiman Kamara went to Strasbourg, and Coubillier went to Paris.
His fingers tapped the table unconsciously, the rhythm subtly matching the rise and fall of the distant waves.

On the transfer list, Metz's young center forward Emmanuel Adebayor's name is followed by the number 320 million.

Ribery's name was marked with an asterisk, a name Roy had specifically mentioned before. All indications now seem to confirm this; his minimum standard is indeed at least Rothen's, but there are too many areas in his personality and playing style that need correction.

But Deschamps has never been afraid of troublemakers.

Are there not enough troublemakers on the French team? Even Zidane wouldn't dare to bare his teeth at one of them.

The pen suddenly stopped on Ibarra's documents.

Porto's discarded player, the Argentine right-back, transferred from Boca Juniors to Porto in 2001 for a record transfer fee of 885 million euros, but now he is only available on loan.

The phone in the study suddenly rang.

Deschamps answered the phone, and Jean-Pettit's rapid breathing came through the receiver: "He signed."

“We couldn’t wait any longer. Campora hired a helicopter to fly to Paris to sign the contract.”

He let out a long sigh of relief.

Deschamps walked toward the balcony.

The hot July wind, carrying the cheers of the fans, swept over us.

In the direction of the Stade Louis II, one can vaguely see a crowd of people, and sporadic fireworks explode in the night sky.

The cheers drifted away on the sea breeze, pieced together intermittently to form that name.

He turned and went back to his study, where the still-wet ink on the tactical board reflected a faint light.

Deschamps picked up a red marker, circled Roy's name, and then heavily crossed it out—not to mark him leaving the team, but to signify locking in the core.

On July 10th, Manchester United's official Chinese website database suddenly updated with a key piece of information: "Manchester United have signed Ronaldinho," with the release time shown as 6 PM Beijing time. This brief announcement, directly released by the Manchester United Group's public relations office, sent shockwaves through the Red Devils fans. Following Manchester United's past transfer practices—from Pelion to Djemba—the official website prepares press releases in advance, releasing them immediately after the official signing.

However, the transfer market is unpredictable. Early on the 11th, agent Assis revealed to the media: "Ronaldinho has decided to choose Manchester United, and now he is just waiting for Paris Saint-Germain to accept the final offer." But the shrewd agent also left room for maneuver: "The trip back to France originally scheduled for Thursday (10th) may be postponed, and the specific date has not yet been determined."

This tug-of-war began at the end of the season. At that time, Manchester United were confident that they could acquire Ronaldinho for a low price of 1500 million euros, but with Real Madrid, Barcelona and Chelsea getting involved, Paris Saint-Germain quickly raised their offer to the 2500-3500 million euro range—comparable to the price Beckham paid for his transfer to Real Madrid.

The crucial turning point came in the early hours of July 10th. Florentino Pérez suddenly announced that "Real Madrid's summer signings are finished," leading Manchester United to believe they had the deal in hand. Unexpectedly, Barcelona made a lightning-fast move, with Laporta offering a stunning bid: €27 million in cash, plus Cristanvard and Riquelme.

Manchester United proposed a base transfer fee of €2500 million plus €1000 million in add-ons.

Paris Saint-Germain is ready to release the player.

On July 10th, they signed Portuguese striker Pauleta for €12 million as a replacement, while captain Pochettino transferred to Bordeaux. The club is currently negotiating with Assis, hoping that Ronaldinho will waive his 15% commission clause on the transfer fee.

"We have reached a preliminary agreement with Manchester United, but we will treat all offers equally."

Assis's statement was intriguing. Similarly, Barcelona vice-president Sandro Rosell's statement was equally significant: "Our offer demonstrates Barcelona's ambition, and the two clubs' bids are very close."

On the same day, a third newcomer walked into the Barcelona medical examination center.

Following Rustu and Marquez, the new president Laporta has finally satisfied the Barcelona fans who advocate attacking football. The new president is none other than the renowned young Portuguese right winger Ricardo Quaresma.

Quaresma has signed a four-year contract with Barcelona, ​​and Sporting Lisbon will receive the equivalent of €7 million in transfer fees. Dubbed the "new Figo," Quaresma is the fifth Portuguese player to arrive at Camp Nou, following Figo, Baia, Couto, and Simão.

Quaresma's signing with Barcelona was as fast as his breakthroughs down the right flank.

On July 8th, he first traveled from Porto to Celta Vigo, then transferred to Madrid, and finally arrived in Barcelona by car in the evening. Upon arrival, the 19-year-old Portuguese man went straight to his hotel and slept soundly.

On the morning of the 9th, Quaresma met with Barcelona executives at the hotel; he only left the hotel once, during a tour of the club facilities.

Throughout the entire process, not a single journalist was able to locate the Portuguese.

While his agent, who is also Max's agent, Mendes, and Alves attended the press conference announcing the Mexican center-back's signing, Quaresma could only wait patiently for lunch.

At 2 p.m., Barcelona vice president Rosell, Quaresma's two agents, and his brother Alfredo, who accompanied him, went to the hotel to meet him and then went to the Fuste restaurant for lunch.

Max also took his seat and came to greet his new teammates. Although Laporta did not dine with the "new Figo," he still came to greet everyone.

After lunch, Quaresma, Mendes, and Sandro returned to their office at the nearby Camp Nou stadium to discuss transfer details, mainly regarding their personal terms.

Four hours later, facing the waiting media, Quaresma confidently declared: "Joining Barcelona, ​​I have finally realized my dream. I am ready to handle the pressure of Barça: playing in front of 60,000 fans."

However, Quaresma also said he didn't like people comparing him to his compatriot Figo, who plays for Real Madrid: "Although it's an honor to be compared to a great Portuguese star like Figo, I have my own style, and at Barcelona, ​​I know I can do as well as Figo."

Later that day, Quaresma and his agent discussed the final details of the deal with Sandro and Sporting Lisbon. Barcelona will pay €500 million in cash and offer Sporting Lisbon a 65% stake in Rochenbach.

Mendes leaned against the floor-to-ceiling window of the Camp Nou box, an unlit cigar between his fingers.

"Wise choice."

He spoke into the phone, his voice calm, but his brow furrowed almost imperceptibly.

On the other end of the phone, Assis's voice carried a hint of contempt: "Ronaldinho said that Monaco kid is a coward, he's afraid of the challenge from Manchester, and he himself will become the new king of Old Trafford."

Mendes turned his gaze from the window to the transfer documents spread out on his desk.

Quaresma then bent down and signed his name on it.

“Roy?” He repeated the name, with a subtle pause in his voice, as if he were pondering some unresolved proposition.

Assis chuckled softly on the other end of the phone: "What, you also think he's just a nobody hiding in Ligue 1?"

Mendes did not answer immediately.

What a bunch of fools Brazilians are, always trusting their poor relatives who also come from the slums.

Just like Ronaldinho's brother Assis, he was greedy but failed to secure a higher price.

If he were Ronaldinho's agent, he could guarantee to secure a more lucrative and long-term benefit, regardless of whether Ronaldinho joined Manchester United or Barcelona.

His gaze swept over the photos of Barcelona's historical stars hanging on the wall—Cruyff, Romario, Rivaldo. The blank spaces behind them should have belonged to the future new king.

"Time will tell what happens on the football field."

Mendes strode toward Rosell's office, his voice urgent: "Inform Chairman Laporta that Manchester United are close to signing Ronaldinho, and we must speed things up. I will contact Veron's agent immediately; do you want to consider the Argentine as your second option?"

Rosell put down the documents in his hand: "What about Belleron? If that doesn't work, perhaps we should consider re-employing Riquelme?"

Mendes shook his head: "Velleron's release clause is too high, as for Riquelme..."

Russell picked up the phone: "I'll report to the chairman right away."

"The Argentinian. He has a very bad relationship with the club, so I need to let the coaching staff assess his adaptation first."

But he didn't actually make the call; Barcelona's results weren't as important as defeating Laporta.

There's no rush to make Barcelona great again.

At the very least, it cannot be that Laporta can achieve greatness again.

Catalan media recently criticized Barcelona for "impractical signings," with Laporta mired in the salary quagmire left by his predecessor Gaspart.

Marca reveals that Barcelona's player salaries and bonuses exceeded 1.2 million euros last season, surpassing the club's total annual revenue!
Two major poison pill contracts: Kluivert (€1050 million annual salary) and Mendieta (€700 million base salary + €3 bonus per game) have become financial black holes, with the former preferring to forgo a transfer rather than give up his high salary.

Structural disasters: Puyol's €530 million annual salary is difficult to reduce (Catalan flag), Enrique's €560 million negotiation is deadlocked, and Overmars, despite a mere €300 million annual salary, is burdened with €721 million in installment transfer debt. Even more absurd is the chaotic bonus system—Cristanvar receives €3.2 per game, while Roschenbach receives only half that amount, making no sense whatsoever; Dani Guiza's "top scorer award" reaches a staggering €1200 million!

Laporta has saved 20% on expenses by cleaning up Mendieta, Sorin, and others, and Cocu has renewed his contract with a pay cut.

But this summer in the transfer market, Barcelona has had to dance with these financial shackles on.

July 11, Manchester, Carrington Base, 3:17 AM.

The fax of L'Équipe's breaking news report trembled slightly on Ferguson's desk, the headline glaring: "Roy renews contract with Monaco: The talented striker stays at the Stade Louis II."

The Scotsman stared at the words, the smoke from his cigar swirling slowly in the lamplight.

Just a few days ago, Manchester United was full of hope.

Roy's agent, Milaccio, has hinted that the player would be willing to consider joining if the offer is right.

But now, all that's left on the phone is the cold reality:

"He's decided to stay another year to play in the Champions League for Monaco." Migliorgio's tone was tinged with reluctance, yet also with helplessness. "If Manchester United are still interested next year, we'll prioritize talking to you."

Ferguson tapped his fingers twice on the table, then picked up the phone and dialed the number of Manchester United CEO David Gill.

"David, what's Barcelona's offer?" His voice was low and resolute.

On the other end of the phone, Gil quickly flipped through the documents: "2700 million euros as the base, plus Cristanval and Riquelme."

Ferguson didn't hesitate: "Match their cash portion, and we'll sign tonight."

Gil paused for a second: "But Ronaldinho's agent was just saying..."

“No, it’s not Ronaldinho,” Ferguson interrupted him, his gaze still fixed on the fax. “It’s Veron.”

His heart is no longer at Old Trafford.

"If we miss out on Ronaldinho, next year we can just wait for Van Nistelrooy to dribble the ball into the goal himself!"

The golden lights of the Hotel Crillon in Paris shimmered in the night as Roy's black van slowly pulled up at the end of the red carpet.

The moment the car door opened, a 1.77-meter-tall Frenchman nimbly jumped out. His dark brown curly hair swayed gently in the night breeze. As Roy stepped out of the car, his gaze quickly swept across the hotel entrance and he said in a low voice, "VIP passage on the right side of the main entrance."

In front of the Crillon Hotel, flashbulbs of camera lights flashed like a storm.

Roy stepped out of the van, impeccably dressed in a suit, his expression calm.

The flashbulbs suddenly went off, and the young man calmly stepped aside, using his shoulder to shield Roy from the nearest microphone.

His gaze quickly locked onto the microphone logo and a few faces in the brochures among the reporters, his brain automatically recalling the reporting tendencies of these media professionals.

The moment Roy adjusted his suit collar, he had already mentally calculated the best course of action: "The L'Équipe reporters are at three o'clock; they have exclusive details about your contract renewal."

Roy smiled knowingly.

Behind him, Nicolas Heathlen—his Monaco teammate who used to hand him water in the locker room—has now quietly changed roles and become his personal assistant.

He may not have a high level of education, but he possesses terrifying learning, memory, and calculation abilities.

Heathlen received Roy's protection in the locker room and his skills improved to some extent. However, Roy keenly sensed that while he might be able to establish himself in Ligue 2, he ultimately lacked the spark of talent to shine in the top league.

However, Heathlen possessed another precious quality: an almost obsessive rigor and an almost stubborn loyalty.

Roy often found himself pondering this after training: fate's allocation of talent is always dramatic. Watching Heathlen diligently practicing his passing on the grass, he thought of the talented young boys from his hometown who played street football, possessing an innate feel for the ball but lacking a real passion for the sport.

This mathematically gifted person, capable of calculating data to two decimal places, is stubbornly pursuing a football dream that may never be fully realized.

"do you know?"

One evening during extra practice, Roy suddenly said to Heathlen, "The professors in the mathematics department of the École Normale Supérieure in Paris are probably lamenting the loss of a potential genius."

Heathlen stopped wiping the football, a gentle smile playing on his light brown eyes in the setting sun: "But my father always said that numbers only really have meaning when they serve people."

When Monaco decided to loan Heathlen to Lorient in Ligue 2 after the season ended, the young Frenchman said goodbye to Roy.

"Have you achieved your dream now?" Roy asked.

Heathrow's answer was simple and firm: "I will continue to work hard!"

Roy's gaze sharpened for a moment: "Is your dream to play professional football, or to change your family's life through football?"

Heathlen paused for a moment, then said softly but clearly, "I hope they're doing better. That's more important."

So Heathlen stayed.

At this moment, he stood beside Roy, his gaze calmly sweeping over the reporters surrounding him, and slightly raised his left hand to deflect a microphone that was almost poking Roy's chin.

Roy nodded almost imperceptibly and strode into the hotel, escorted by bodyguards.

Behind him, Heathlen closed the car door, instructed the driver to drive the car to a certain location in advance, and then turned around and followed, his movements as swift as when he intercepted an opponent's pass on the field.

Under the spotlight, no one noticed the calm, data-driven glint in the former player's eyes—he had already memorized the information Claire had prepared in advance, calculated the most suitable solution, and even considered whether his younger siblings in Chaumont would have their tuition fees covered next month.

2003年7月11日晚上20点30分。

Inside the press room at Old Trafford Stadium in Manchester, flashbulbs were constantly going off.

Under the watchful eyes of the staff, Ronaldinho signed his name in cursive script on the last page of the contract, completing the signing ceremony. This five-year contract will bring him £300 million after-tax income per year, as well as generous appearance fees and goal bonuses.

When Ronaldinho held up his Manchester United jersey to the media, his smile appeared slightly stiff.

His brother and manager, Assis, standing behind him, also looked rather uneasy.

The landscape of European football was completely rewritten on this day.

The transfer, which was originally set to fall through in the last 48 hours in another timeline, was completed in this timeline.

Ferguson, having failed to sign Roy, began a full-scale pursuit of Ronaldinho.

This time, Manchester United showed an unprecedented level of determination.

When Barcelona hesitated due to financial problems, Manchester United directly matched Paris Saint-Germain's demand for a base transfer fee of 2700 million euros, while retaining the original 1000 million euros in performance-related bonuses—a figure far exceeding Barcelona's affordability.

Despite Barcelona vice president Rosell calling Ronaldinho in an attempt to persuade him with his dream of Camp Nou and his blueprint for building the team around a Brazilian if he succeeded in defeating Laporta and was elected Barcelona president.

But this time, the Brazilians' attitude was not as strongly swayed as it had been in previous histories.

Manchester United's actions can be described as a blitzkrieg: they not only quickly finalized the contract on the sporting front, but also paved the way for Ronaldinho commercially by arranging multiple high-value sponsorship deals to ensure he was equally satisfied financially.

Ferguson knew that this was a battle he could not afford to lose.

Having lost Roy, he absolutely could not allow himself to lose another genius.

Ultimately, Ronaldinho chose Old Trafford over Manchester United's offer of sincerity and Barcelona's hesitation.

The gears of history have turned.

The only minor flaw was the number eight jersey that Brazil was holding up. This number originally belonged to Manchester United midfielder Nicky Butt, but the club changed his number to four before signing him.

Meanwhile, Chelsea's £1400 million bid for Manchester United midfielder Juan Sebastian Veron, currently holding the number 4 jersey, has been informed that there are no longer any obstacles. Manchester United stated that the transfer will not affect the team's squad plans for the new season. A club spokesperson emphasized: "We are delighted that Ronaldinho has chosen to join Manchester United; he is an important part of our long-term plans."

Regarding the story of the number 7 jersey, Sir Alex Ferguson recounted a classic moment that went down in history to the media: "On May 26, 1999, at Camp Nou in Barcelona, ​​the Champions League final was in stoppage time. UEFA President Renate Johansson had already stood up to present the trophy, and as he passed Sir Bobby Charlton, he made a point of saying 'sorry' as a gesture of comfort. UEFA staff had even begun tying Bayern Munich-colored ribbons to the trophy."

"The German television commentator was quoting England legend Gary Lineker's famous saying: 'Football is simple. 22 men chase the ball for 90 minutes and the Germans win.' But at that moment, Sheringham and Solskjaer scored two goals in stoppage time, completing a stunning comeback."

Ferguson specifically mentioned commentator Clive Tildersley's exciting shout: "'Solskjaer has won! Manchester United has reached the holy land promised by God!' UEFA President Johansson later recalled: 'The most incredible thing is that the losers were dancing and the winners were crying.' This dramatic moment perfectly embodies the legendary spirit carried by the number 7 jersey of Manchester United."

Sir Alex Ferguson surveyed the entire stadium with unwavering determination, his voice ringing out: "At this crucial moment, with a Russian tycoon attempting to use money to overturn the traditions of English football, and Arsenal eyeing the title with predatory intent, we need a true warrior who can step up in adversity to carry on this legacy."

He paused briefly, a hint of reminiscence flashing in his eyes: "Just like that night at Camp Nou in 1999, when everyone thought the outcome was decided, someone always manages to create a miracle. Solskjaer proved with his performance that the spirit of Manchester United will never die."

"The number 7 jersey carries so much legend," Ferguson's voice grew increasingly firm. "It represents the light that shines even in the darkest of times. Ole (Solskjaer) fully deserves this number because he has the true blood of the Red Devils flowing in his veins!"

The veteran coach unconsciously clenched his right hand, as if he were back on that magical night: "When the Germans had already begun to celebrate, and when the UEFA president was preparing to present the award, it was this never-give-up spirit that made history for us. Today, we need to carry on this spirit."

(True story: Solskjaer wore the same clothes for two months before signing Ronaldo.)
The next morning.

In the still-lingering morning mist of Manchester, newsboys are stuffing the Manchester Evening Post, still warm from the roll, into mailboxes.

On the front page, Ronaldinho's earring, reflected in the newsprint, looked like a chess piece that had just been placed.

British media coverage tended to focus on Manchester United's victory.

London Evening Standard

Title: Manchester United Hijacks Ronaldinho Deal, Wenger Cancels Scheduled Dinner Meeting

Content: Arsenal manager Arsène Wenger immediately canceled a dinner with sponsors and returned to the Colney training ground alone after learning that Manchester United had signed Ronaldinho.

Focus: The Premier League title race will be even more intense in the new season.

The Daily Telegraph

Title: Manchester United's blitzkrieg secures Ronaldinho, Ferguson defeats Barcelona

Summary: Manchester United beat Barcelona to a last-minute signing of Ronaldinho with a bid of €2700 million plus €1000 million in add-ons. At the press conference, Ferguson emphasized the "Manchester United spirit" and used the 1999 Champions League miracle as a starting point for the new season.

Focus: Has Manchester United's commercial capabilities surpassed those of other traditional powerhouses?
The Mirror

Title: The Hidden Battle Behind Ronaldinho's No. 8 Number: Butt Steps Down, Veron Departs

Summary: Manchester United vacated the number 8 jersey for Ronaldinho, Nicky Butt switched to number 4, and Chelsea's £1400 million bid for Veron was accepted. Ferguson thus completed his squad adjustments.

Focus: Will the number change cause conflict in Manchester United's dressing room?
The Sun

Title: Ronaldinho's smile was stiff during signing; was his agent, Assis, unhappy with the number 8 jersey?

Content: Ronaldinho's smile was strained at the press conference, while his agent, Assis, looked grim. Manchester United won the transfer battle, but is the Brazilian truly satisfied with the number 8 jersey?
Focus: Will Ronaldinho seek the number 7 or 10 jersey in the future?
German media outlets remained relatively neutral, offering calm analysis and lighthearted commentary.

Kicker

Title: Manchester United's Double Standards: Fighting Money with Money

Content: Ferguson criticized Abramovich's "money-driven football," but Manchester United offered Ronaldinho a £300 million after-tax annual salary and huge bonuses, which also broke the salary structure.

Focus: How do traditional wealthy families balance money and spiritual values?

Bild

Title: "Ferguson mentions the 99 comeback again; Bayern fans: Enough!"

Content: Manchester United manager once again uses the Camp Nou miracle to inspire the team, German fans jokingly ask: "Is Manchester United only a memory left?"

Focus: Is psychological warfare still Ferguson's greatest weapon?
In the Iberian Peninsula, however, the reporting stance is completely opposite.

The two major Catalan mouthpieces focused on Barcelona's regrets and reflections.

World Sports Daily

Title: Laporta's Failure: Money Loses to History

Content: Barcelona's financial problems prevented them from matching Manchester United's offer, and Ronaldinho ultimately chose the Red Devils. Laporta's "empty talk" strategy has suffered another setback.

Focus: Should Barcelona adjust its transfer strategy?

Daily Sport

Title: Rosell's Last-Ditch Effort Fails, Ronaldinho Chooses Manchester United

Content: Rumors circulated that Barcelona vice-president Rosell had made an emergency call to Ronaldinho, but Manchester United's commercial commitment and Ferguson's prestige became the decisive factors.

Focus: Is Barcelona relying too much on "emotional appeal"?
The front page of Marca.

Title: Laporta's "Brazilian Dream" Shattered: Ronaldinho Chooses Manchester United, Barcelona's Finances Become Difficult Again

Subheading: "€2700 million + add-ons? Barcelona can't even match the offer!"

Key Takeaways: A direct comparison between Manchester United's €2700 million base transfer fee and Barcelona's meager offer of €2000 million plus installments highlights that Laporta's promise of "economic recovery" upon taking office remains empty talk.

According to an insider, "Barcelona even needs to sell players to register new signings." (This implies that Riquelme might be sold.)
Laporta vs. Rosell: Internal Strife
The report revealed that when Rosell called Ronaldinho at the last minute, he claimed that "Laporta doesn't understand Brazilian geniuses," exposing a split within the management.

Ironically, "Even the vice-president himself doesn't believe in Camp Nou's 'dream'."

Good news for Real Madrid: The article concludes by turning to the Bernabéu, stating that "Florentino is glad Barcelona missed out on a strong reinforcement, and says Beckham is better than Ronaldinho."

AS (As) front page

Title: Ronaldinho Rejects Barcelona: Manchester United's Money is More Real than the "Dream" of Camp Nou

Subheading: "Rossel's phone offensive fails, Brazilian ultimately chooses £300 million annual salary!"

Content Focus:

The title directly states "Money triumphs over 'empty talk'", detailing the four sponsorship deals Manchester United secured for Ronaldinho (Nike, Vodafone, etc.), in contrast to Barcelona's empty promise of only "core status".

Quoting an anonymous agent: "Barcelona is unwilling to even concede on image rights revenue."

Technical Analysis:
By comparing Manchester United's and Barcelona's attacking statistics from last season, the conclusion is: "Ronaldinho would actually have had more opportunities to shoot if he went to Manchester United."

The comment reads: "Should Barcelona fans be thankful? At least they still have the 'new Laudrup' (referring to Iniesta, who played as a makeshift number 10 to help the team achieve a winning streak during the later stages of Van Gaal's tenure)."

In an interview with the BBC, Barcelona vice president Rosell stated: "I have been informed that our offer was lower than Manchester United's. For us, there are two principles in buying players: firstly, the player must aspire to play in Barcelona, ​​and secondly, he must love the city of Barcelona. If it were merely a matter of money, we would prefer Ronaldinho to go to Manchester United."

Barcelona seemed a bit envious, and Rosell continued, "He can make money in Manchester, but if he understands what it means to play for Barcelona, ​​then we believe he would be willing to go to Catalonia. We won't compete with Manchester United on price; what we need is the player's loyalty, and perhaps this is just wishful thinking on our part."

Morning light streamed through the arched windows of the Prince's Palace in Monaco, casting diamond-shaped dapples of light on the front page of L'Équipe's photo of Ronaldinho signing with Manchester United.

Roy's fingertips hovered three centimeters above the newspaper.

In that instant, he suddenly realized some kind of huge misalignment.

"Number 8 jersey?" He moved his lips silently.

In my memory, that Brazilian should have been wearing the Barcelona number 10 jersey and giving Real Madrid a sound beating at the Bernabéu.

Now, the stiff smile of Ronaldinho and the news of Nicky Butt being forced to give up his number in the newspapers are like jarring notes in a tampered musical score.

The sound of the fountain in the Prince's Palace garden suddenly seemed to fade into the distance.

Perhaps this has something to do with me?

His outrageous remarks at the Stade de France two days ago led the Scottish coach to place all his bets on the Brazilian talent.

Every flap of a butterfly's wings reshapes the trajectory of a storm.

Half an hour later, the Hercules Garden in the Prince's Palace of Monaco was bathed in sunlight.

Roy stood before a cluster of blue hydrangeas glistening with dew, his fingertips pinching the shoulder seam of his Monaco jersey. Crown Prince Albert placed his hand on Roy's shoulder, the brand-new number 10 gleaming brightly.

The morning bell of the port ward church struck its tenth time.

And a new era for Monaco football has quietly begun amidst the chiming of bells that shake off rose petals and dewdrops.

Roy's car slowly drove up the winding mountain road to the Latilby training center, while Giuly's car roared uphill ahead, its engine echoing through the mountains like a wild beast unwilling to be silenced.

As the two cars entered the training ground one after the other, they stopped simultaneously—Gallado's car was already parked there, and a strange black Mercedes was parked next to it.

Beside the car door, a tall figure leaned lazily against the car body. Sunglasses obscured his eyes, but could not hide his innate arrogance.

36-year-old Caniggia, Argentina's legendary "Son of the Wind," is chewing gum with a faint smile on his lips.

His career began at River Plate, peaked at Verona, Rome, and Benfica, and although he is now in his twilight years, his unrestrained and wild aura still silences the entire parking lot.

Gallardo stood beside him, obedient like a grandson, even leaning slightly forward, as if ready to listen to his teachings at any moment.

Roy pushed open the door and got out of the car. The sound of his shoes rolling over the gravel made Caniggia turn her head slightly.

The gaze behind the sunglasses might be scrutinizing this new core player of Monaco, or it might just be a casual glance.

“Looks like training won’t be too boring today,” Giuly said in a low voice, his tone tinged with excitement and respect. Caniggia straightened up, casually draped his sunglasses over his shirt, and walked towards them.

His steps still carried the lightness of his peak, as if he could tear through the defenses at any moment with the speed of a gust of wind, just like back then.

"I heard you guys need an old guy who can come on occasionally?"

His voice was hoarse yet magnetic, and the smile on his lips deepened.

Roy and Juli exchanged a glance.

Today's training might be more interesting than I expected.

Roy and Gallardo shook hands politely.

At that moment, Caniggia suddenly looked at Roy with a meaningful gaze, her lips twitching slightly, as if she was trying to suppress a laugh.

“Diego knows the story you’re talking about,” Caniggia said, his voice tinged with amusement. “After Marcelo mentioned it to me a few days ago, I laughed for a full five minutes and called Cuba that very day.”

Roy was clearly stunned by what he heard, while Juli, who was standing next to him, was already laughing so hard he was doubled over.

Regarding his use of Pelé and Maradona to explain the story of "loyalty to one's country".

He once likened Pelé to Maradona being captured and locked in a manger.

Unexpectedly, Gallardo told Caniggia, who then told Maradona himself.

Caniggia's smile vanished, replaced by a serious expression. "Diego is very interested in you. But he said..."

He paused briefly, then said, "That guy Bailey, who fawns over Clinton, has no right to lock him up."

In a recent interview with OLE newspaper before the Copa Libertadores, football legend Maradona maintained his signature straightforward style.

When asked if he would run for Boca Juniors presidency, he said bluntly, "I don't have a millionaire father who would give me the presidency as a gift."

He subtly criticized the current president Macri family, while admitting that he was "always forgotten" at Boca Juniors.

When discussing River Plate's victory, Maradona remained true to himself: "They performed well domestically, but they were eliminated in Colombia. Boca Juniors are the team that plays under pressure."

Although he emphasized that it was not meant to be disrespectful, his words were still full of contempt for his mortal enemy.

Regarding comparisons with Pelé, Maradona fired off: "The truth is, Pelé knew he would always be second. This didn't start with me; in his own country, Pelé was second only to Senna. If his Santos faced my Boca Juniors, we would shut down all the space, and when fouled and unable to break through the defense, Pelé would get enraged, lash out at his opponents, and then get a red card. He preferred Blatter to Zico, betraying his roots."

The most scathing criticism was directed at Bailey's political stance: "When he went to see Clinton, he acted like someone who licked America's ass."

Speaking about his personal life, Maradona emotionally described his ex-wife Claudia as "the woman of my life" and warned, "Anyone who dares to hurt her will suffer the consequences." He concluded by addressing the Argentine people: "Never forget Diego, I will always be with you."

The sunlight slanted across the training field onto the grass. Caniggia juggled the ball casually, his movements still elegant and fluid, showing no signs of being a 36-year-old veteran.

He would occasionally joke with the young players who passed by, acting nothing like a high-and-mighty legend, but more like an old boy who had come to fulfill his dream.

Deschamps stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling window of his second-floor office, his fingers unconsciously tapping on the glass.

He watched Roy and Giuly walk toward the locker room, chatting and laughing, but his gaze involuntarily drifted toward the parking lot—one luxury car after another drove in, and the new recruits walked toward the training field in twos and threes.

This brand-new Monaco team is slowly taking shape, but Deschamps' brow remains furrowed.

The midfield problem was like a thorn in his side.

Edward Cissé, on loan from Paris, is warming up on the sidelines; Akis Zikos, who has been sidelined for six months due to injury, is doing rehabilitation training on the sidelines, the Greek's weathered face full of uncertainty; Bernardi is full of energy, but Deschamps knows where his ceiling is.

The void left by Max's departure serves as a constant reminder of the team's shortcomings.

"Coach, shall we begin training?"

The assistant coach's voice brought him back to reality.

Deschamps took a deep breath and straightened his collar.

In any case, the new season is fast approaching.

Rothen's sarcastic voice had barely faded from the training field when Roy caught a glimpse of a familiar figure out of the corner of his eye—Frank Ribery was striding across the parking lot, heading straight for the locker room.

His scarred face stood out sharply in the sunlight, and his steps carried his usual fierceness.

Rothen turned his head, a half-smile playing on his lips, and raised his voice at Ribery's retreating figure: "Is this the substitute you found for me?"

His tone was a mix of teasing and probing, but his sharp gaze swept over Roy, as if he were weighing something.

Ribery didn't stop walking at all. He simply raised his hand and waved it casually, then said without turning his head, "That depends on whether you can make me sit on the bench."

His voice wasn't loud, but it was loud enough for everyone to hear, carrying his signature nonchalant attitude.

Just as Deschamps' hand touched the doorknob, his phone suddenly vibrated in his pocket.

He frowned and took out his phone, but the name "Jean-Pettit" on the screen made him pause.

“Mr. Petit”.

Deschamps answered the phone briefly, his gaze still fixed on the training field through the window.

Rothen's confrontation with Ribery made his temples throb.

Petit's voice trembled slightly with excitement on the other end of the phone: "We've raised our offer to seven million! Sochaux has relented! Pedretti himself—"

Deschamps tapped his index finger lightly on the window frame, then suddenly interrupted, "He wants to play in the Champions League?"

“That’s right!” Pettit almost shouted. “His agent just confirmed it!”

Deschamps' lips unconsciously curled into a smile.

He whistled a cheerful tune.

The assistant coach turned his head in surprise; he hadn't heard his head coach react like that in a long time.

"I'll get the medical check-up done tomorrow."

Deschamps hung up the phone and tapped Pedretti's name heavily on the tactics board.

The sunlight outside the window suddenly became dazzling, and he squinted as he looked at the training field: Roy was instructing the young center forward Adebayor on his positioning, and Caniggia's lobbed pass drew a perfect arc. And now, they were about to welcome that iron gate who could anchor the midfield.

Deschamps straightened his tie and walked with a much lighter step than usual as he opened the door.

The noise from downstairs rushed towards him, but this time, he detected a different rhythm.

Madrid.

Morientes' agent was frantically sorting through the offers on the table—Chelsea, Tottenham, Lyon, Paris Saint-Germain, PSV Eindhoven, and even Bayern Munich, who were originally in the lead.

However, with Makaay's transfer finalized, Bayern's interest cooled abruptly, and negotiations with other clubs also became a tug-of-war.

Just as the agent was about to call Lyon's sporting director again, his phone suddenly rang.

The name flashing on the screen made him raise an eyebrow—Morientes himself.

"I want to go to Monaco."

The Spanish international's voice came through the receiver, tinged with a hint of reluctance yet also revealing a certain determination: "A loan is just right. Maybe I can return to Madrid."

The agent was stunned.

Monaco?
This Ligue 1 team, which had just lost Max and was still rebuilding its midfield, was not even on their radar before.

But Morientes' tone left no room for argument: "Deschamps' team needs experience, and in the Champions League, I need to prove myself."

For Morientes, this loan is by no means a simple compromise.

After being relegated to the bench at Real Madrid, he craves not only playing time, but also a stage where he can shine again.

Monaco, the team about to compete in the Champions League, may be the stepping stone he needs.

In Monaco, Deschamps' phone rang almost immediately after the news broke.

The club's management quickly assessed the feasibility of the deal – a loan meant low risk, and Morientes' Champions League experience and penalty area awareness were exactly what this young team lacked.

For him, this might be a high-stakes gamble—either a rebirth in the Champions League or complete marginalization.

But Morientes seems to have made up his mind.

"I don't want to wait any longer."

Morientes hung up the phone, but Roy's almost arrogant invitation kept echoing in his mind.

"You can come to Monaco too, I'll have your back."

These words were like a spark, igniting his long-dormant ambition.

Roy's name has appeared in the European football scene with an almost absurd frequency over the past six months.

"We're betting on the Champions League."

In an interview after signing the contract, he made no secret of his ambition.

"I don't want to leave like this. I want to try. We'll try our best to see how far Monaco and I can go in the Champions League. We'll go as far as we can."

Roy smiled.

"That's right, we want to win the Champions League, that's it!"

When reporters pressed Roy on why he was so confident, he grinned:
"Because only madmen believe in miracles, and Monaco has a whole team of madmen right now."

After watching the interview, Morientes finally decided to call his agent.
"Tell Monaco that I accept the loan."

Deschamps stood in front of the tactical board, a slight smile playing on his lips.

He knew that if the loan went through, Monaco's dressing room would no longer just be "competitive," but utterly "dangerous."

If Morientes joins, Monaco's attacking line will be completely transformed:
Roy, with unparalleled explosive power, eternally confident to the point of arrogance, and cold-blooded like a machine when it comes to finishing.

Juli, a fox-like movement expert, an assassin with an ever-present smile, and a low-key tactical pivot.

Rothen, in his prime, with his blond hair flowing in the wind, delivers crosses with the precision of a scalpel.

Pulso, the Croatian giant, the epitome of violent aesthetics, and a master of headers.

Morientes, a Champions League veteran, a penalty area hunter with extensive experience in major tournaments.

Caniggia, the final dance of the Wind Child, where experience and a demonic blade coexist.

Adebayor is tall, has a tough and agile playing style, and possesses the explosive power of a young leopard.

Ribery, a genius who breaks through anger and unpredictability, an unruly genius, a powder keg in the locker room.

This is a front line made up of madmen, veterans, outcasts, and gamblers.

The betting game has begun.

As the summer heatwave sweeps across the Mediterranean coast, the entire Monaco team is in full swing preparing for the new season.

The team chose to hold its preseason training camp at the Vinovo training ground outside Turin, Italy – Juventus’ training center. Due to the Bianconeri’s trip to the United States to participate in the International Champions Tour, this world-class training ground is temporarily on loan to Monaco.

On the training field, Antonio Pintus was using a stopwatch to observe the players' shuttle runs.

The Ligue 1 season kicks off on August 2nd, and the even more anticipated Champions League group stage will begin in mid-September.

The assistant coach stood on the sidelines with a tactics board covered with notes outlining the preparation plan for the next month.

“Pay attention to the rhythm!”

Deschamps' shouts were particularly clear under the bright Italian sun, and his gaze behind his sunglasses swept over each training session like a hawk.

Roy dropped back to receive the ball in the attacking third, and Pedretti's pass pierced through the simulated defense like a scalpel—not delivered to his feet, but directly into his running path.

"Pretty!"

Deschamps blew his whistle, "But not ruthless enough!"

When Pedretti first emerged at the European Under-21 Championship, he was dubbed "Deschamps II" because of his defensive style of anticipating positioning and his accurate long passes.

Now he has found the perfect coach to teach him.

He gestured, instructing Pedretti to add more spin when passing the ball, "to make the ball stop suddenly! Roy, don't always think with your right foot after receiving the ball!"

Roy wiped the sweat from his brow, then suddenly turned to Pedretti and shouted, "Again! This time I'm going to hit with my left foot!"

Pedroti grinned and curled a shot with the outside of his foot around the dummy, which Roy met with a powerful left-footed shot.

"boom!"

The ball hit the underside of the crossbar and bounced into the net.

Deschamps casually wrote in his notebook: "Roy, significant improvement in his left foot."

Not far away, Giuly and Rothen stood on either side, still bickering, but their crosses were becoming more and more accurate.

On the left flank, Rothen's blond hair was soaked with sweat, but he still didn't forget to shout at Giuly: "Ludo, if you don't pass into the penalty area this time, you're buying the whole team coffee!"

Giuly retorted, not to be outdone: "Then you'll have to catch up to my cross count first!"

The two took turns catching the ball.

Rothen's precise 45-degree cross found Pulso's head, and the Croatian giant leaped up, overpowering the second-team center-back to smash the ball into the net.

Giuly's low, quick pass found Evra making a run at the far post, and Evra volleyed the ball into the net.

Deschamps suddenly stopped them: "Rothen! Your pass was too conventional!"

He grabbed a training vest and demonstrated for himself, "To play against Italian teams, you have to be a little deceptive!"

"You, you, you! Go and grab the spot!"

The 19-year-old Adebayor obediently ran into the penalty area.

As he spoke, Deschamps kicked a seemingly elusive but suddenly dipping ball, which Adebayor easily tapped into the empty net.

With Deschamps' whistle, the intra-team scrimmage began.

Pedretti unleashed a low 20-meter shot from the backfield, finding Rothen who had made a run down the left flank.

The French winger chested the ball down and flicked it past the defender before sending in a cutback cross.

Roy appeared like a ghost at the penalty spot and slotted the ball into the top corner with his right foot! 1-0!

Deschamps nodded on the sidelines: "The rhythm is right."

Before the second team could recover, a few minutes later, Giuly suddenly started moving on the right wing.

He used two consecutive shoulder drops and changes of direction to create space before crossing the ball.

Pulso outjumped the second team's center-back Gilville to head the ball across.

Roy volleys the ball into the top corner! 2-0!

Evra laughed and exclaimed, "This isn't a training match! It's a shooting exhibition!"

Bernardi demonstrated his value when the second team launched a counterattack.

A clean and decisive sliding tackle to intercept the ball.

He then played a one-two pass with Pedretti.

A through ball found Roy making a run forward, and Roy suddenly accelerated to touch the ball, creating a one-on-one situation before delicately chipping the ball past the goalkeeper! 3-0!

The Turin sun beat down on the training field's grass, and the reserve team players were already panting heavily, completely overwhelmed.

But just when one team relaxed their guard.

Suddenly, a scarred figure burst out from the crowd. Ribery changed direction three times in a row, his cleats scraping rapidly on the grass. The last frittata directly knocked Squillaci down!

"boom--!"

The ball blasted into the top right corner like a cannonball. Goalkeeper Roma couldn't react in time and only managed to touch the ball with his fingertips when he rose up.

The moment the ball hits the net.

The sidelines erupted instantly, with the second team players cheering.

Roy was the first to jump up, whistling and clapping: "Whoosh—! That's great!"

He turned around and patted Rothen on the back with such force that Rothen stumbled: "Jerome, don't let me see you on the bench next season."

Luo Teng rubbed his shoulder and chuckled dryly, "Your fellow villager is quite something. I'll teach him a couple of tricks sometime."

Roy's gaze swept past the cheering crowd and landed on Ribery. The scarred kid was being celebrated with his teammates, who were ruffling his hair, and he had that same carefree smile on his face—just like when he was playing pickup football on the streets of Boulogne a few years ago.

"Frank!"

Roy suddenly shouted, and Ribery turned his head reflexively, his eyes still filled with lingering excitement.

Roy pointed to his temple: "Next time you move forward, check Adebayo's position first."

Ribery's smile froze for a moment.

Deschamps nodded quietly on the sidelines.

This is exactly the issue he was going to point out in his post-match analysis: While the breakthrough was brilliant, Gallardo had already created space on the right wing, and passing the ball would have been a better option.

Rothen leaned closer and whispered, "This kid still needs two more years of training."

He rubbed his back, which had been sore from Roy's pat, "However..."

"However, his explosive power is 30% better than yours."

Roy interrupted without hesitation, watching Ribery defiantly demonstrate his earlier move to the assistant coach. "Mr. Petit loves these 'raw stones' the most. Remember how he polished you back then? He mentioned it to me."

Rothen's face stiffened.

When he first joined the team in 2001, he was punished by Petit to be a sparring partner in the youth team for being late for training. The memory of having to practice crossing 200 times a day until he vomited instantly came to mind.

Suddenly, Petit's signature cough could be heard from the sidelines.

The old assistant coach appeared at the edge of the training field at some point, holding a notebook in his hand, his eyes behind his glasses fixed on Ribery's every move.

Deschamps walked over, and the two talked in hushed tones, occasionally pointing to the young winger on the field.

“I bet 50 euros,” Roy suddenly said, “that within a month Frank will be assigned to help caddies retrieve balls.”

Rothen shook his head: "I bet he'll be punished by washing the whole team's shoes first."

He paused, then added, "However, this kid reminds me of myself when I first arrived."

At that moment, Ribery attempted a lob shot from 40 meters out, but the ball flew high over the crossbar.

Petit made a heavy mark on the notebook with his pen.

When the whistle blew to end the training session, Deschamps called out to Ribery.

Ribery walked over nervously, only to find that the coach simply handed him a videotape.

“Giggs: The Complete 1999 Champions League,” Deschamps’ voice was not loud but stern enough, “I want to hear your analysis of every cross option before training tomorrow.”

After signing the contract, Morientes went straight to Turin.

When he stood by the training field, dragging his suitcase, dressed in a sharp suit, it looked as if he had just stepped out from under the spotlight of Madrid.

He squinted and looked toward the center of the field.

A dark-haired figure, with his back to him, received the ball at the edge of the penalty area, turned, swung his leg, and fired a shot!

"boom--!"

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

The man turned around, a carefree smile on his face, his gaze sweeping across half the field before locking onto Morientes.

"Fernando!"

Roy shouted, his voice echoing throughout the training ground, even causing Giuly, who was practicing crossing, to stop.

Morientes raised an eyebrow slightly.

He had never seen such an arrogant welcome before.

Roy strode over, the number "10" on the back of his jersey standing out prominently in the setting sun.

He stretched out his hand, his palm still warm from training: "I knew you would come."

"Because of your promise to 'protect me'?"

Morientes chuckled, "The Real Madrid dressing room isn't that straightforward."

Roy grinned, revealing his fangs: "This isn't Real Madrid."

He took a half step closer and lowered his voice, "This is the madman's territory."

In the distance, Deschamps stood with his arms crossed in front of the office window, watching the two men's first handshake, which resembled a confrontation.

Senior assistant coach Jean-Pettit smiled and asked, "Want to go over there?"

"No need." Deschamps smiled slightly. "Let them handle it themselves."

"Roy will handle it."

In the setting sun, the shadows of the two forwards were stretched long, like two swords about to be drawn from their sheaths.

Morientes grasped the hand, feeling the warmth and strength of Roy's palm—neither obsequious flattery nor condescending charity, but the purest kind of handshake between players.

Roy's expression was clean, showing neither the exaggerated enthusiasm of "Real Madrid's former number 9 has arrived" nor the pity of "yet another disappointed person".

He had a slight smile on his lips, but his eyes were very focused, as if he were simply evaluating a player who was about to join the training.

"We're missing a center in the practice games."

Roy released his grip, pointed to the penalty area, and said, "Pulso was just called away by the team doctor. Do you want to fill in for him?"

Morientes suddenly realized that this mixed-race boy didn't care about his past at all.

They don't care that he's a national team player abandoned by Real Madrid, nor do they care how much controversy he brought to Monaco.

Roy only had the most straightforward question in his mind: Can you kick? If you can, then go for it.

He took off his suit jacket and unbuttoned his cuffs: "Rules?"

"There's a kid goalkeeper on the second team's side, just don't shoot him too hard."

Roy turned and called out in French to the field, "Hé, les gars! (Hey guys!) The new guy's getting a trial run!"

Giuly whistled from a distance and casually tossed his training vest over. Morientes caught it with one hand, and the Frenchman winked at him: "Welcome to the circus, big star."

Pedretti has begun to rearrange the training posts.

Morientes stretched his ankle and suddenly realized that there was no welcoming ceremony, no dressing room speech, and no one even asked him why he left Real Madrid.

In the sunset over Vinovo, he was just someone who came to play football.

And this feeling was damn exhilarating.

(End of this chapter)