When playing football, you should call it GOAT.

Chapter 34 Now it's my turn to listen (Please read on!)
"Roy! Tear them apart!!!"

The people around him froze for a second. The people who had argued with him earlier didn't say anything more, and some even patted him on the shoulder.

The middle-aged, older-school fan muttered to his companion, "Damn, that was awesome."

The French commentator delivered a chilling, hushed remark: "No celebration? No, this is the most terrifying celebration—the way he walks is as if to say, 'This kind of goal is just routine for me.'"

"Listen to the stands now! Where are all those shouts and curses? All those banners have been reduced to ashes by this one goal."

Studio guest Eric Cantona delivered a resounding comment: "Finally! The French team has a striker who doesn't look like a postman!"

The studio fell silent instantly, and the host coughed awkwardly.

"You always say Zidane is an artist? Look at this kid's goal—"

Replaying Roy's lob shot in slow motion, Cantona suddenly slams his fist on the table.

"Damn! This is what football is all about! Not Henry's sprints, not Trezeguet's headers, this is it!"

He poked his temple with his finger.

"Playing football here! Wiltord? Ha! He only thinks with his knees!"

The host tried to smooth things over: "Do you think he deserves number 11?"

"Number?" Cantona sneered.

"Back when I wore number 7, Manchester United's number 7 was just called number 7. The number doesn't matter; a legend is a legend no matter what number he wears."

Eighty-first minute.

Sagnol launched a 40-meter long pass from the right wing, which hurtled into the penalty area like a missile. Trezeguet jumped at the near post and headed the ball across.

Roy lightly tapped the ball with the instep of his left foot, sending it soaring like a feather over the head of the onrushing defender.

The Maltese center-back looked up in despair, like a puppet being toyed with.

"Sagnol's long pass! Trezeguet heads it on—Roy!!! A volley! He outmaneuvers the defender! He bursts into the penalty area!!!"

Before the ball even hit the ground, Roy darted out like a cheetah, leaving his defender two body lengths behind in two steps and bursting into the penalty area.

With a flick of the outside of his right foot to the right, the defender's center of gravity was shifted, but Roy suddenly used the inside of his right foot to twist back to his left, almost breaking the opponent's ankle.

"Outside of the foot flick! Cut it back! The Maltese guy's ankle is going to break!!!"

He feigned a shot with his left foot, fooling both the goalkeeper and the defender. Roy then changed direction again, flicking the ball to the right with his right foot. The sliding defender flew past him like a kite with a broken string.

"A fake shot! Another change of direction! The sliding defender was like a discarded garbage bag!!!"

Facing the goalkeeper, he feinted a shot, Muscat knelt down and missed, and Roy fired a low shot with his right foot!

As the ball hurtled toward the goal, defender DiMeci tried his best to block it.

But he could only watch in vain as the ball struck his ankle and violently deflected into the net.

"Low shot—deflected!!! BUUUUUUUUT!!! The seventh goal!!!"

"This isn't a goal—it's a massacre! It's a humiliation! It's Roy declaring to the world: 'Who dares to question me now?'"

Trezeguet laughed and ran over to pat Roy on the head, shouting, "Kid, if you can keep scoring like this, you can wear whatever number you want!"

Henry instinctively raised his hands to celebrate, but then realized that this was the "newcomer who grabbed the number," so he clapped three times instead, as if he were slapping a disobedient apprentice.

Makelele sprinted halfway down the field, grabbed Roy by the back of the neck, and yelled in his ear, "If you do that again, I'll break your legs first!" But there was a smile in his eyes.

The middle-aged fan silently put away the scarf printed with Wiltord's image and said to his companion, "Well, this kid really deserves number 11."

The fourth official raised the substitution board again.

Rothen (No. 7) replaces Henry (No. 12)

The Canal+ commentator's voice suddenly rose in pitch:
"Look! The blond-haired Rothen steps onto the grass—this Monaco magician understands Roy's running code better than anyone else!"

"Ten minutes left in the game? No! For this devilish duo, three minutes is enough to make Malta bleed again!"

The camera panned across the Maltese players' pale faces.

"Look into their eyes—it's not weariness, it's fear! The arrival of the Monaco duo means there's no time for mercy in the slaughter!!!"

Roy smiled. Zidane's dribbling was elegant and his pass was exquisite, but the moment Rothen came on, he suddenly no longer felt like he was fighting alone.

As the two passed each other in the center circle, Rothen drew a circle on his temple with his index finger, a mischievous grin on his face, as if to say, "I'll find you with a pass."

As Rothen's blond hair swept across the grass, Malta's wounds awaited the final spoonful of scalding salt.

The commentator left a fatal cliffhanger:
"Remember my words: Rothen's left-footed pass, Roy's ghostly run—this could be the cruelest farewell of the night!"

"Malians, if you still have the strength to pray, now is the time!"

In the 88th minute of the match, the scoreboard, 7-0, was blurred by a bloody mist.

The scene fell silent for a moment, as if there was a suffocating silence before a storm.

Zidane flicked the ball with the outside of his left foot, sending it gracefully across the left flank to Rothen.

The moment the blond-haired winger received the ball, his abundant stamina and continuous changes of direction and sudden stops caused the Maltese right-back's knee to groan under the strain. Surrounded by three defenders, Rothen's left foot sliced ​​through the night like a crescent moon, the ball arcing in an aerodynamic frenzy, first spinning outwards then mysteriously curling inwards, bypassing Trezeguet's head at the near post, and precisely falling into the death zone.

"Rothen crosses the ball—"

Another figure swept past Trezeguet.

"Roy!!!"

The voice suddenly rose to a distorted pitch.

The moment Roy burst through the defenders' encirclement, he briefly lost his balance, but remained as composed as a king with his back to the goal.

Just as the ball was about to pass by his side, he inexplicably twisted his waist and hips.

His right leg swung up like a scorpion's tail, the grass scraped up by the cleats hadn't even hit the ground before the ball exploded into the net.

After taking the shot, he rolled over, his blue jersey stained with grass, but a cruel smile appeared on his face.

"Scorpion Tail Whip!!! Scorpion Tail Whip!!! Scorpion Tail Whip!!!"

"Eighth! Eighth! Hat-trick! Hat-trick! A debut hat-trick! This is unbelievable!!! (Speech speed increases) Look at that move! Look at that elegance! Look at that talent!!! He's facing away from the goal! He doesn't even need to look! He just knows where the ball is!!! (Almost screaming) This is art! This is magic! This is blasphemous football!!! (With religious fervor) France! Witness the birth of your new genius!!! (Suddenly lowers his voice, then explodes again) ROOOOOOOOOI!!! (A heart-wrenching roar) He made the Maltese kneel! He made France stand up!!! (With a sob) This shot should be in the Louvre's collection! This shot should be in the textbooks!!! (Hysterically repeating) Ladies and gentlemen! We have just witnessed history!!! Ladies and gentlemen, we have just witnessed the birth certificate of the future Ballon d'Or winner!!! (Finally, shouting with all his might) AAAAAAAAAAAH (Pure emotional outburst, without any words)!!!"

The net was still trembling as Roy slowly got up from the grass.

His blue battle robe was covered in mud and grass clippings, and the sweat dripping from his black hair refracted like a crown under the spotlight.

Roy tilted his head back, his jawline taut in a sharp arc, his Adam's apple rising and falling with his still-breathing gasps.

He spread his five fingers against his earlobes, his body slowly rotating with a cruel rhythm, his black eyes sweeping across the stands, precisely measuring every corner of the Arena of France with every degree of precision.

Eighty thousand people, a diverse array of lives.

The shadow of his right ear, with his fingers spread wide, seemed to want to crush all the boos, insults, and doubts he had heard since the start of the game into his palm.

The sweat-soaked jersey clung to his back, its movement rippling with his shoulder blades like a roaring lion's mane.

"Now it's my turn to listen."

The next second, Rothen's blond hair exploded in his vision. This blond thug from Monaco sprinted across half the field and leaped to slam Roy hard onto the grass.

"You're fucking crazy!"

Rothen's roar, mixed with bits of grass, filled Roy's ears, making him feel as if his ribs were about to break.

Before he could catch his breath, Trezeguet's mountain-like shadow loomed over him. The Juventus striker slid down to his knees and joined the crowd, his thick arms gripping Roy's neck: "I scored a goal like this when I was eighteen, and I can still brag about it now!"

Makelele and Paquerretti joined in, their combined weight causing the referee to frown and check his watch, fearing that the French team might lose a player during their celebration.

Amidst this chaos, only Zidane stood silently like a deity.

When Roy finally struggled to crawl out of the crowd, his blue jersey stained with grass and his teammates' saliva, he saw the hands that had controlled countless championships reaching out to him.

Zidane's palm patted his back with a light touch, yet it felt like stamping his seal: the three syllables "Bien joué" (Well done) signified that you had earned Zidane's approval and respect.

At this moment, the sound of the crowd at the Stade de France began to boil over.

The shouts that first erupted from the North Stand spread like wildfire, and the flags waved in the East Side die-hard section formed a blue ocean. Even the celebrities in the VIP boxes loosened their ties.

The young fan who had been drenched in beer was being lifted high above the crowd.

Just as Roy had always thought, you can love my flamboyance or hate my arrogance, which means you fucking remember me.

After tonight, France had better be prepared to remember my name forever.

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L'Équipe's front page: "11 > 14: Roy proves with three goals that I deserve every number."

Photo caption: Roy's scorpion kick, Wiltord throws a towel on the bench.

[Exclusive] Santini admits: "When I gave him the number 11, I knew that Wiltord's era was over."

The Times International: From dressing room assassin to France’s new crown prince: Roy’s 20 minutes of upheaval.

Data analysis: Roy only touched the ball 7 times in his first two goals, which is 300% more efficient than Henry in the same period.

Marca: "Zidane's successor? No, he's more like Cantona!"

Comparison: Roy's delicate chip shot & scorpion kick vs. Cantona's lob shot against Sunderland in 1996.

Gazzetta dello Sport: Moratti urgently contacts Migliaccio: Inter Milan decides to officially join the race for Roy in the summer transfer window.

Gossip: "Is BOBO (Vieri) out of favor?" Canalis confesses on her show to be infatuated with the French rising star: "There isn't much Ligue 1 news here, but he really has a personality. Platini, Zidane—now I want to know when he'll say, 'It's time for me to get ready to play in Italy.' He looks so charming on camera, really, his physique makes me dizzy."
Bild: Bayern Alert: French Prodigy Attracts Bavarian Star.

Beckenbauer commented: "His composure reminds me of a young Gerd Müller."

France Football in-depth report: "Dress room recording leaked: What happened when Zidane said 'Bien joué'"

Wiltord's agent stated: "Number 11 was voluntarily given up."

(End of this chapter)