Football: He suffered a broken leg at the start of the game, but partnered with Haaland!

Sun Yang did not run laps.

He walked alone to the center circle of the pitch. A brand-new match ball bearing the Champions League star logo was parked at his feet.

Sun Yang recalled the night Maradona taught him netball in the system's dream.

"Master the breath of the ball. Don't treat it like a dead object." The Argentine fat man's words echoed in my ears.

Sun Yang lifted his right toe and gently tapped the ball on the bottom. The ball obediently bounced up.

He didn't do the usual warm-up ball juggling.

Sun Yang suddenly tensed the instep of his right foot and, facing the bottom of the falling ball, forcefully slammed it down.

boom!

A muffled thud echoed across the empty stadium.

The ball shot straight up more than 20 meters into the air like a cannonball, flying directly over the height of the stadium's roof lights.

The reporters on the sidelines were startled by the sound and all looked up.

"What is he doing? Is he throwing a tantrum and kicking me to get out of trouble?" Martin frowned.

The ball reached its highest point in mid-air and began to fall rapidly. With a height of over twenty meters and the force of gravity, the ball's impact was extremely heavy.

Sun Yang stood in the center circle, not moving an inch. He looked up at the falling ball and raised his right foot.

Just half a second after the ball touched the instep.

Sun Yang deftly lowered his ankle. This was a micro-management technique that maximized the absorption of force.

There was no sound of collision.

The ball, hurtling down at high speed, seemed to be under a spell; it didn't bounce even half a centimeter, sticking perfectly to Sun Yang's shoe. It was as if a magnet had grown there.

The entire photography area fell silent instantly. Only the shutters of a few automatic cameras clicked away.

Martin's mouth dropped open, and the notebook in his hand fell to the grass with a thud.

Before he could react, Sun Yang launched another attack.

boom!

The ball shot straight into the sky for the second time, still reaching a height of over twenty meters.

This time, Sun Yang switched to his left foot. With the same rapid dissipation of force, the ball came to a steady stop on the instep of his left foot.

Followed by.

The third time. The fourth time. The fifth time.

Sun Yang always stood within that small circle of less than two square meters in the center arc. Each time, he would kick the ball high into the air and then perfectly control it with every part of his body.

On the sixth attempt, he turned around and used his heel to bring the ball to a steady stop as it fell from the sky.

On the seventh time, he stopped the ball with his thigh, and the ball slid down his knee to his foot and landed.

The eighth time. The ninth time!

He kicked the ball high into the air nine times in a row, and then perfectly brought it back to his feet nine times in a row. Throughout the entire process, Sun Yang's expression was as calm as if he were drinking a glass of water. Not a drop of sweat was wasted, not a single unnecessary step was taken.

The Dortmund teammates who were running laps on the sidelines all stopped in their tracks, staring at the center circle as if it were a monster.

"Damn it." Haaland swallowed hard. "Does this guy have radar and hydraulic shock absorbers in his brain? This is the newest Champions League ball, and it's as slippery as a bar of soap!"

Hummels walked up to Favre and grinned.

"Dad, Sun is playing psychological warfare. He's trying to sow discord among the French."

Favre nodded, looking at the new captain on the field with great admiration.

Aren't these French media outlets always boasting about their unparalleled Latin-style ball control and mocking German football for being rough?

Sun Yang pulled this stunt in front of them today to tell the world that Dortmund's current midfield maestro is even more technically gifted than South Americans.

Martin, the arrogant editor-in-chief of L'Équipe on the sidelines, was flushed red. His dozens of French colleagues around him were now completely silent.

This was completely different from the Bundesliga style of play they were used to, which relied solely on physical confrontations. The incredible ball control and coordination displayed by those nine consecutive masterful touches left these self-proclaimed football experts in awe.

Sun Yang stepped on the ball, turned his head and glanced at the group of reporters on the sidelines. He didn't smile at all, but simply kicked the ball towards the coaching bench, turned around and walked back to the team.

This is more hurtful than any verbal provocation.

The pre-match press conference following training.

The press room was packed. Paris Saint-Germain manager Thomas Tuchel had just finished speaking an hour earlier. Tuchel arrogantly declared that PSG would teach Borussia Dortmund what real Champions League football is all about.

Now it was Dortmund's turn. Favre and Sun Yang sat on the podium.

Following public relations protocol, Favre briefly mentioned his injury situation and assessment of his performance on the field.

The reporters below didn't care about these platitudes at all. Their guns were all pointed at Sun Yang, who was wearing the captain's armband.

A blonde, blue-eyed French female journalist was the first to stand up and raise her recording pen.

"Sun, Coach Tuchel just pointed out that your team has no tactics whatsoever besides fouls and collisions. In the first leg, your Reus was injured in a challenge. Now, coming to the Parc des Princes, facing Neymar and Mbappe's attacking force, are you planning to park the bus with eleven chairs in the penalty area?"

This is a very pointed question, even bordering on humiliating.

The French journalists below all wore expressions of schadenfreude.

Sun Yang looked at the female reporter. He pulled the microphone closer to him.

"We've lost a great captain; it's truly a huge loss," Sun Yang said calmly.

The female reporter raised her eyebrows smugly.

"But we won't park the bus, and I've never taken those two strikers worth hundreds of millions seriously." Sun Yang's tone suddenly rose, each word striking the audience.

All the reporters were taken aback.

Sun Yang leaned forward, his gaze sweeping over the hundreds of media personnel below.

"Since Tuchel said he would teach us how to play football, I'll give him a piece of my mind here."

"Football is played with the feet, not with studs to injure people." Sun Yang tapped the table. "If PSG's football is about letting a butcher like Verratti go straight for the opponent's ankle with his studs when they're behind, that's not playing football, that's dirty play."

The crowd immediately erupted. This was tantamount to tearing off the fig leaf and publicly denouncing Paris Saint-Germain as dirty.

"Watch your words! This is an insult to Paris Saint-Germain!" a male reporter shouted angrily as he stood up.

"An insult?" Sun Yang stood up abruptly.

He looked down at the shouting reporter.

"I came to Paris two days early just for Marco Reus."

"Go back and tell those lumberjacks who only know how to play dirty. Tomorrow night, I'll personally kick them out of the Champions League. Send them all back home for vacation."

Sun Yang's speech caused an uproar. Flashbulbs went off like crazy. Questions and angry shouts poured out from the press section.

Favre didn't stop Sun Yang. This was exactly the kind of fighting spirit he wanted to see.

"See you tomorrow night. You'd better bring a few extra handkerchiefs, because your fans will be crying loudly."

Sun Yang didn't even push the chair back; he turned around and walked into the backstage area of ​​the press conference hall without looking back.

The door slammed shut, shutting out hundreds of enraged French media personnel.