When playing football, you should call it GOAT.

Chapter 31 Would you call yourself a young person if you weren't impetuous? (Please read on!)
"Next time you're late, stop on the players' bus."

Zidane smiled, patted Rothen on the shoulder, and made a joke, thus taking over the matter.

Rothen nodded, then plunged into the queue, giving Roy a glare and a subtle expression.

The French team, in their black suits, emerged from the shade of the parking lot and ascended the sun-drenched marble steps of the main building's auditorium.

Santini stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows in the press room, the steam from his coffee cup swirling before his eyes like the smoke of battle.

What he saw was not a football team, but rather a legion with a clear class division.

Zidane stood like a flag-bearer, with Henry and Barthez flanking him like centurions with spears and shields. Several others stood alongside them, while Makelele stood silently like a heavy infantry phalanx, his footsteps barely audible above the creaking of Lizarazu's shoes.

Roy smiled and quickened his pace to step into the second group, only to have Wiltord "unintentionally" step on his heel.

The automatic doors of the training base became a triumphal arch, and in the reflection of the glass, the figures of Gowu and Dabo on the outermost edge of the team were bent, like the blurred soldiers on the edge of an ancient battlefield mural.

As the group entered the main building, all footsteps stopped abruptly, leaving only the crisp sound of a santini coffee cup hitting its plate.

In the Clairefontaine tactics room, the entire French team sat in formation. Santini leaned against the projection screen, the blue light casting a cold, stern silhouette on his face.

"Malta? Israel? The Confederations Cup? No, we only have one opponent: ourselves in 2002."

The projection suddenly switched to humiliating photos of the World Cup group stage elimination: Barthez missing a shot, Trezeguet holding his head, Zidane charging forward with a limp, and Henry receiving a red card for a flying tackle on Romero.

Images of the 2002 World Cup defeat flashed by, and Santini's tactical pen made a harsh tapping sound in the silence.

"Our goal is to be ourselves in 2000."

Finally, the camera cuts to footage of their Euro 2000 victory, and Henry and Trezeguet's micro-expressions instantly brighten from gloomy to cheerful—but Zidane doesn't smile.

The moment the locker room number list was posted, the air seemed to freeze.

Roy stared at the "ROI" behind number 11, his eyebrows subtly raised, and his peripheral vision swept over Santini like a blade. The coach was pretending to study the tactics board before walking out of the locker room, but the tight lines at the corners of his mouth betrayed him.

Suppressing veterans to establish authority?

Number 11 should have been Wiltord's number, but it was given to him, a newcomer who was being drafted for the first time.

This is not a gift, but a declaration of war.

He immediately realized that Santini, who was also new to the area, wanted to use him as a pawn in reorganizing the locker room.

The wildfire in the locker room will start from within oneself.

But Roy had no choice but to accept the challenge.

He could temporarily bow his head to the still-fierce old lion.

Zidane still reigns supreme like a lion on his throne, and the Ballon d'Or aura makes no one in the locker room dare to look directly at his majesty.

You can show goodwill to a tiger in its prime.

Henry was at his peak; the Arsenal king's claws could tear apart any defense, and also tear apart any dissidents in the dressing room.

Wiltord is past his prime, his playing style is rough, but he is still a dominant force in the locker room thanks to his past achievements and fiery temper.

Lions will eventually grow old, and tigers will always have injuries and illnesses, but if even an aging buffalo (Wiltold's nickname) dares not bite through its throat, why will the wolf pack recognize you as their leader in the future?

Number 11 was not a gift, but a piece of raw, bloody meat that Santini threw into the cage.

It will either carry it to the throne or be torn apart by even hungrier teeth.

whee.

I originally wanted to get along with you guys as a warm and friendly guy, but now I have to be the troublemaker again.

The coach gave it all to me, which represents his high expectations for me.

I can't just give it away, that would be too disheartening.

Roy stepped forward, lightly touching the number book with his fingertips, deliberately making the paper crackle.

He deliberately muttered in English, "Eleven interesting."

He glanced down at the number list, then looked up at Santini, his eyes clear as a lost puppy's.

"Number 11? I thought it would be a bigger number."

As Wiltord's curses erupted, Roy took out his neatly folded number 11 jersey from the closet, unfolded it in front of everyone, and the sound of the fabric rubbing together was like a slap in the face.

"Number 11? That's a number for veteran players, not for rookies in youth training!"

Wiltord stared intently at him, as if fire particles were about to burst from his eye sockets.

He was waiting to see if Roy would back down, realize he was unworthy of the position, and declare that the number should be returned to its rightful owner.

Makelele stood up and stood behind Wiltord, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on Roy, silently exerting pressure.

Henry leaned against the wardrobe with a half-smile, twirling his phone in his hand, a subtle curve at the corner of his mouth.

“Wiltold, calm down, it’s just a number.”

Actually, it was also the owner who pointed out the number to Roy.

Trezeguet gloated, pretending to adjust his socks, but his eyes were fixed on Cissé's number 9.

"At least number 11 is a decent number, better than some people who get number 9."

Lizarazu and Sagnol whispered among themselves within the Bayern Munich group: "The new kid's pretty arrogant."

Roy suddenly turned to face Wiltord, glanced at him with feigned curiosity, and then tossed his jersey to the equipment manager with his right hand.

"Iron it, make the number more noticeable."

At this moment, Wiltord could no longer bear it. He leaped up, and Makelele couldn't stop him.

"What the hell makes you think you can do this?! Who scored in the 2000 European Championship final?! That kid hasn't even played in the qualifiers!" Wiltord grabbed Roy by the collar, but his eyes were fixed on Henry, spittle flying everywhere.

Henry slowly tied his shoelaces: "Calm down, at your current pace..."

Wiltord and Henry were teammates at Arsenal; this statement is a strategic retreat.

Wiltord interrupted: "To hell with speed! This is a matter of respect!"

Roy blinked, then suddenly grabbed Wiltord's wrist and twisted it.

Zidane suddenly coughed.

Wiltord released Roy's hand instantly.

The locker room fell silent as Zidane's figure cut through the crowd, delivering the final verdict on this locker room storm.

His gaze first fell on Wiltord's face, where a trophy from the 2000 European Championship lay dormant.

Then he glanced at Roy, who had a cold smile on his lips and a defiant spark in his pupils.

"Let the goals speak for themselves," he said.

Then he leaned close to Wiltord's ear and said in a voice only he could hear:
"Your value doesn't need to be proven by a number, but if you can't even keep a child in check, don't blame others for forgetting you."

Then he walked up to Roy, placed his hand on his shoulder, and Zidane's eyes held a half-smile.

To reiterate: "Let the goals speak for themselves."

If you're arrogant, then go prove you have the ability to be arrogant, otherwise don't expect anyone to catch you when you fall.

The training match is in its 32nd minute.

France's offensive and defensive drills: Blue Team (starting lineup) vs. Red Team (reserve lineup).

The Blue team made a passing error in midfield, and Pedretti suddenly pressed forward, flicking the ball with the outside of his right foot, sending it bouncing towards the center circle.

Red team forward Cissé starts moving instantly.

Cissé controlled the ball with his left foot while simultaneously pushing Makelele aside with his shoulder. Makelele then subtly tugged at Cissé's shirt, but the referee did not call a foul.

He took a long dribble and pushed the ball five meters after his first touch, but the Blue team had pushed forward aggressively, leaving their defense vulnerable, forcing Thuram to retreat while fighting.

On the other side, Roy's shadow swept in like a whirlwind, and two ghosts pounded on the door!
Cissé dribbled to the right side of the edge of the penalty area, where Thuram finally made a sliding tackle!

Before falling, Cissé flicked the ball with the tip of his right foot, sending it past Thuram's side and landing precisely in the space on his left flank.

The shrewd Sagnol quickly set a trap, deliberately letting Roy go to the outside, leaning his body to compress the angle, trying to force him to pass back.

Roy calmly observed the situation, and with his first touch, he sprinted the ball three meters along the sideline with his right foot.

What appeared to be a mistake was actually a trap to lure the enemy.

Sagnol suddenly accelerated to chase the ball, while simultaneously blocking Roy's position to the side and behind.

But Roy suddenly accelerated, sprinting along the outside, charging at full speed from Sagnol's right side.

The moment it passed over Sagnol's body at an astonishing speed, the powerful inertia and physical resistance knocked Sagnol to the ground.

Sagnol knelt down and pounded the grass, the veins on the back of his hands bulging.

Three seconds later, he suddenly stood up, pulled at his training vest, and grinned as he cursed, "That's a fucking rugby move!"

Roy broke into the penalty area, and Gallas moved laterally to cover, lowering his center of gravity to block the crossing route.

He lowered his shoulder to the left, feigning an inside cut, and Gallas immediately shifted half a step to the side.

He pulls the ball with the sole of his right foot, seemingly intending to flick it sideways, but actually pushes it with the inside of his instep, sending the ball past Gallas's twisting foot.

He accelerated twice to the baseline, leaving half a body length behind in one step.

A sudden variation, flashing past Gallas.

Barthez had already covered the near post, and Roy curled a shot with the inside of his right foot, sending the ball in a high arc.

The football spun rapidly along its curved trajectory, and Barthez leaped into the air, but his fingertips ultimately missed by a hair's breadth.

The football struck the inside of the far post and bounced into the net.

"wooo!!!" Rothen let out a cheerful whistle.

Zidane, standing beside him, glanced at him, then stared at Roy in the penalty area, a smirk playing on his lips as he muttered, "PUTAIN."

Barthez leisurely retrieved the ball from the net.

Gallas stood frozen in place as if he had been acupunctured, until the ball rolled back to the center circle, at which point he mechanically spat out his chewing gum.

Cissé grinned and gestured "2 to 1" to Roy, implying that they would play a one-two next time.

Trezeguet turned to Henry and whispered, "His cut inside felt faster than yours."

Henry raised an eyebrow, somewhat reluctant to admit it, but after a few seconds he laughed: "I don't think so, otherwise why would he call me 'Little Henry' instead of me?"

As Roy ran back to the center circle, Zidane reached out his hand, and Roy gave him a high five.

Zidane

“Call him Zizu.”

He reached out and ran his hand through the hair at the back of Roy's head.

Wiltord's face turned ashen, Zidane's calm but cold words echoing in his mind:

"If you can't even manage to take care of a child, don't blame others for forgetting you."

(End of this chapter)